


Bad Blood and Burned Castles

by agiaoftyrosh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dark but not too Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-05 05:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11570934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agiaoftyrosh/pseuds/agiaoftyrosh
Summary: prompt: Theon Greyjoy finds a place he can call home (you did say any place)Domeric Bolton returns to his childhood home to find nothing as he expected. Theon can relate.





	1. Chapter 1

The autumn sun lifted itself above the trees to shine pale and sickly upon the two figures as they stumbled through the woods. The man, running with a slight limp, lagged behind slightly. His more agile companion scrambled ahead, looking back at times to make sure he accompanied her still. Neither had any breath left for speech.

The baying of the hounds seemed to be everywhere.

The man was the first to go down. When the dog crashed against him, he crumpled to the ground without a cry and lay there, too exhausted to move. Nonetheless, the woman heard him fall and looked back with a sob which turned into a scream as she felt a second dog's teeth tear into her calf. Other dogs came into view, circling and growling but keeping their distance. More ominous were the sound of hoofbeats, which seemed to be coming from multiple directions at once.

The red stallion was the first to appear, snorting and glaring as he pulled to a halt before them. His rider was a meaty young man with meaty smiling lips, the breeze lifting his pink cloak seeming reluctant to touch his greasy long hair. Others soon rode up behind them. The delighted smile faded from the plump lips, however, and the lead rider held up a hand for silence. His men quieted as they, too, heard the sounds of one more horse approaching at an impressive speed through the dense woods. 

The last horse was tall and white and his rider wore plain but well-made traveling clothes. A garnet drop hung from one ear. His expression was placid as he took in the scene before him: the hounds, the bedraggled captives, the hard-faced men staring coldly at the interloper.

"Who goes there?"

"I heard your hounds and I wondered what game might be about in these woods. I must admit, I thought the tales about two-legged prey were only that." The young man's voice was musical, his tone was light and casual, but a small line had appeared between his eyebrows.

"These are escaped criminals. It's my duty to see them punished." The rider of the red horse had been scowling, but his mood seemed to lift a little as he spoke, a strange glitter coming into his eyes. "I take my duties very seriously. This is none of your affair. Unless you want to join them? There's always room in the dungeons for trespassers."

"I shouldn't think so. These are my father's lands, after all. If those are prisoners of the Dreadfort, they belong to my father, too."

"Your-" Calm pale eyes met hungry pale eyes, and the hungry ones sharpened. "You are Domeric. My dear little brother Domeric, who has been gone from the North for so long. Please forgive me. I was under the impression that you had died in the war." A tiny fleck of spittle shone at one corner of his mouth as it widened into a grin. He looked back to his men. Each nodded, ever so slightly. Ramsay Snow opened his mouth, as if to issue an order. The rock which sailed past his head missed him by a good margin, but he hadn't been paying attention to the woman who threw it, and it caught him off guard. The red horse felt his rider start, and whinnied and stamped in agitation. It only took a moment to get him under control again, but a moment was long enough. They could all hear other riders approaching now.

"And you're Ramsay. My brother. I've... wanted to meet you, ever since I heard you existed. I'd rather you left that woman alone, though." Ramsay had been glaring at the terrified girl so ferociously, Domeric was afraid he would set his hounds on her right then and there. _Bad blood,_ the thought floated up from the bottom of his mind somewhere, but he pushed it back down.

"Please, m'lord," The girl was still lying on the ground with a torn leg but she had taken courage from his words. "We're not criminals. It's him, he's a monster, he... he does things to us... I...I've done nothing wrong. My name is Kyra and I'm from Winterfell. He's-" She pointed to her comrade, but faltered into silence, her hair twisting about her head in a sudden sharp breeze. There was a new apprehension in her eyes, as if she feared that speaking the name would bring disaster on both of them. The man was climbing back to his feet to face them, and Domeric was getting a closer look. _He is younger than I first thought._ The white streaks in the black hair had thrown off his estimate of the man's age. The face was scared and sad and far, far too thin, and when he bared his teeth in defiance, you could see that some of them were broken. He could not be much older than Domeric himself.

Domeric was still looking at that face when a stout knight rode up, accompanied by a dozen men-at-arms. "Your lordship," said the knight. "Might I beg of you once more not to ride off on your own? These are dangerous times. There could be any kind of villain infesting these woods." He looked askance at Ramsay and his entourage, at the hounds, at the fugitives. He sighed. "Your aunt would put me on the rack."

"I was in no great danger, Ser Gabrin. I was merely curious when I heard the sounds of the hunt, and I came upon my brother here hunting down these escapees. By the way, allow me to introduce you to my brother Ramsay. The lady is Kyra. I don't know his lordship's name, but you will take them both into my custody."

"You can't have them! They are mine. My prisoners. My... responsibility. You would grant me that, wouldn't you? A token of respect and esteem, for your long-lost brother?" 

Ramsay Snow stared at Domeric, his smile stretched wide. There really was something desperate and pleading about him now, but Domeric remembered Kyra's words. He looked back at the prisoners. The young-old man was by the injured girl's side now, his arms wrapped around her, lifting her to her feet, trying to pull her up the hillside and away from the dogs. He looked up as he heard Ramsay speak. "No," he snarled desperately. Domeric stared into big eyes, darkly circled and black. Unusually black. _Greyjoy eyes._ Domeric felt a stab of regret as he realized who this must be. There was an excellent chance that he would have to kill this man. _How troublesome, to find out that I like him beforehand!_

*******

Theon curled all nine of his remaining fingers around his wine goblet, afraid he would start trembling again. The meal he had been given had left him feeling a little stronger, a little less brittle, but the bath had been disorienting. Theon had not expected that. He still felt naked and defenseless, even after slipping into new, clean clothes. His crust of filth had not protected him, but he had thought of it as armor nonetheless. The realization disturbed him. He had sworn to himself in the dark, over and over, that he knew his name, but Ramsay had done things to him over the course of many terrible days and long nights. Things which had left him changed. _Defiled._

His face had changed, too. He'd seen it in a glass for the first time in... weeks? Months? His hair was the first thing to strike him. It was streaked with white at the temples and looked as though it had been hacked short with a butcher's knife, which of course it had been. His beard had been salted with white, before he'd shaved it off. His eyes and cheeks were hollowed out. The clothes he had been given, though of fine make, hung too loosely from his frame. He wasn't sure he could have smiled, even if he thought he could bear the sight of his broken teeth.

The other Bolton, the trueborn one, sat at his desk across from him. He had come out of who knew what corner of the earth, bearing a letter from his father giving him command of the Dreadfort. He had also bathed, and changed, and now wore a pink tunic with little red droplets embroidered around the collar. Theon studied the man. He resembled his father more closely than his brother, with thin lips and even more delicate features. He had the Bolton eyes, although these were cool and serene. If there was madness in them, it was well hidden. The two of them were alone in the room, but Theon knew there were guards outside the door and anyway, Domeric was a healthy young man while he himself felt an aged starveling. His captor may have changed for the moment, but Theon did not doubt that he was still a prisoner. He did not dare to speak first, could barely make himself drink, so they merely studied each other for a while. Eventually Domeric had to break the silence.

"Do you want something else to eat? I would have sent a bigger meal, but I feared you would become sick if you had too much so soon." _I'm not such a fool as that_ Theon wanted to reply, but he didn't dare. Too many conversations with Ramsay had made him wary of his tongue. Instead he shook his head. He might well be ill if he had to eat in the presence of his brother, but Domeric was looking at him with what might have been concern. "You don't look well. My brother has not taken good care of you." His gaze drifted down to Theon's hands, where they curled around the stem of the goblet, the right one over the left so that the gap where his ring finger had been was concealed. Theon wanted to laugh.

"You're not going to tell me I'm lucky to be alive?" The words slipped out this time before he could stop himself. His heart began to race, but he plunged on. "Where's Kyra?"

"We saw to the wound. She's resting now. Maester Tybald says she won't lose the leg if that's what you're worried about, but she'll have a nasty scar. Is she a bedmate of yours?"

"Once. But she's no criminal. She didn't help me take Winterfell or any... anything else."

A smile flickered across the other man's face, for just an instant, and then went out. "My father's dungeons seem to be full of women who all claim they aren't criminals and who have... stories to tell. About my brother. About you, too. Who are they, Theon?"

Theon felt the terror wash over him then, and for a moment he could not speak. It was a trick, it must be some kind of scheme hatched between the brothers... but that made no sense, and he didn't dare remain silent in any case. He forced himself to draw breath-- and by some miracle, when he opened his lips, the right words came out, the true ones, not Ramsay's lies. "They are the women of Winterfell and when he took the castle from me he took them, too. They did nothing. It was me, my mistake..." He found himself unable to continue. 

"It's true then. He hunts women."

"...yes"

Domeric been looking down, into his cup, and had drained it at the last word. He looked back up at Theon, pained. "Please stop looking at me like that. I'm not going to hurt you."

The voice had been soft, the words gentle, but Theon could not accept this promise. He'd had to tell, didn't he? The sounds of the women screaming had haunted him every night since he had been brought to this godsforsaken place. Any risk was worth it, to make that sound stop. His own goblet had emptied itself at some point, and he stared into it now, clutching the stem like a lifeline and waiting. But all that happened was the appearance of a wine bottle. It tilted, and poured, and suddenly Theon was staring into a miniature red sea. He lifted it to his lips, and and this time tasted the Dornish red. He might not quite believe Domeric's assurances, but he was starting to believe him preferable to his brother.

"My brother burned Winterfell, then."

"Yes." It must have been the wine. Suddenly there were things he wanted to say. "He took the women and killed their men. Mine, too. Then he set everything on fire. The stables. He burned my horse."

Domeric looked up sharply. "He _what_? Excuse me." He deliberately placed his wine glass on the table, stood up, and went to the door. He opened it, and spoke a few words to someone on the other side. Theon watched his captor's face carefully as he returned, but he seemed to have regained his composure. "Just one more thing. The Stark boys."

Theon told him. It wasn't that he was afraid to lie, not now. It was the hours alone in the dark and the thoughts that had gone around and around until it was almost a relief when Ramsay had come to him to occupy his mind with other things. The other man listened to his tale in quiet amazement, not interrupting and said nothing for what seemed an eternity after it was completed. When Theon couldn't stand it anymore, he began to beg, "Tell Robb. Please tell him. I didn't kill his brothers. Please, I want him to know. I wouldn't... couldn't have. I'm sorry. Please. Don't let him think... I..."

Domeric was shaking his head, mild bewilderment on his face. "I would understand vengeance, if you killed the Stark boys out of hate. But two peasant boys... why would you _do_ such a thing?" 

He suddenly wanted, desperately, not to have to be Theon Greyjoy. "They... would have laughed at me." 

"Is it so terrible to be laughed at?"

There was no reply he could make to this. He could feel the tears sliding down his face, but Domeric did not laugh at him. There were many things more terrible than being laughed at. Instead he mumbled, "They were just miller's boys."

Domeric tilted his head. "Just?"

 _The corpses had been so small._ Theon looked up into pale eyes. He had seen Ramsay when he looked into them, at first, but that was wrong. Ramsay's eyes were dirty ice, but Domeric's were as clear as a cloudless sky bleached by the sun, and more awful. Ramsay at least needed a knife before he could flay you. He could not stop himself from curling over as the sobs came, hard and unstoppable. A way out had been offered to him once. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with seek._ Anything would be better than feeling like this, but he had tried so hard to remain proud.

The touch of fingertips on his hair was so tentative, he didn't feel it at first. "Stop," he heard, and then uncertainly, "I don't understand you." Finally, softly, "I won't ask any more questions. Please, stop." _They were just miller's boys,_ he tried to think, but that mantra had lost its ability to shield him. There was only the two heads dipped in tar, now, and somewhere far away there was the sound of a harp.

********

Theon no longer lived in the dungeons.

The first night after his escape attempt, he had slept like the dead in his new chambers, which were comfortable but had bars across the windows. Every night since had been plagued with dreams and the fear of waking up on the filthy straw of his old cell. He could not forget that a guard was posted outside his room whenever he was in it.

Nor could he forget that Ramsay Snow had escaped.

"Why didn't you have him locked up the moment we returned?" Theon had demanded of Domeric. When he had been brought to the trueborn lordling's solar the next day to hear the news he had wanted to scream. "You knew what he was."

"I knew he was my brother." Domeric was keeping his cool, but there was a flush across his pale cheeks. "You don't know... I wanted a brother. I wanted... I hoped it was all lies. I didn't want to believe the tales. I wouldn't have, If I hadn't met him on the hunt first."

"You can believe that _he_ doesn't want a brother." Theon wondered at his own boldness. _Ramsay has used up all my fear, and there is none left to spare for his brother._

"He was supposed to be watched. I'm not a total fool. But I didn't know that he had so many friends." Ramsay had not escaped alone. Those who had enjoyed and shared in his amusements had aided his escape and accompanied him, convinced they would have been punished if they had stayed. The prospect of such a band roaming the countryside was the stuff of nightmares. "I've sent search parties out. They'll be found, and my brother will be locked away if he doesn't die fighting."

Theon felt his fingers curl around the arms of his chair, causing the stump of the missing one to ache and throb. He shook his head. "No, you can't let him live. He means you ill." _He will kill you, and take me back_ Ramsay had never spoken Domeric's name, not in Theon's presence, but he felt the truth of this as well as he felt the location of every broken tooth in his mouth.

Domeric turned away, looking out the window. "I'm no kinslayer," he said softly.

Later, he had been allowed to see Kyra, who was still recovering from her bitten leg and other, less obvious wounds. When he sat by her bedside, she took his hand. That was good. After a while, she spoke. "His lordship has offered me an escort home when I get better, and silver for my troubles." She laughed ruefully. Theon only nodded. Domeric had told him his plan to deal with the captive women. "I don't know what else to do," he had confessed, his eyes uncertain, as if he thought Theon might have a better idea. Theon had nothing. He didn't even know what sort of home might be left to go back to, and he said as much to Kyra now. _Stay here. Don't leave me alone._ he thought, but it was hopeless. She was already shaking her head. He had hurt her and he had failed her; he had no right to expect anything different. Someone else had had to save them both.

Domeric often had Theon brought to his chambers in the afternoon. At first this had made him anxious, wondering what kind of game the man was playing at, but he soon worked out that the fat old knight, Ser Gabrin, had been sent away on some errand and Domeric put his confidence in no one at the Dreadfort. _If he trusts no one in this place, he's less of a fool than I thought._ Theon could not feel quite at ease in the presence of those Bolton eyes, but he quickly discovered that company was better than being alone with his own thoughts. Domeric spent most of the time playing his harp, as though he felt compelled to entertain but was not quite sure what to say. The music was almost enough to make him relax, though Theon did not recognize the most of the sad, eerie tunes he favored. He suspected the main reason his captor wanted him there, at least at first, was to listen to things he did not care to tell anyone else.

The day he asked whether Theon's new quarters were to his taste. "It's a cleaner cell," he replied.

"My aunt once threatened to lock me in her dungeon. Of course, that was after my second escape attempt." He saw Theon's expression, and nodded. "I don't suppose you've got an aunt?"

"Uncles."

"I'll trade you my aunt for your uncles. I was visiting her in Barrowtown--I was going to return home, right after--when the Young Wolf called his banners. She locked me in a tower when I told her I wanted to join the army. She swore no more of her male kin would die in Stark wars." There was more to this astonishing story. "The first time I tried to escape I tore up all my sheets and half of my clothes to make a rope. It worked better than you'd expect." He cast Theon an apologetic glance. "That's why your window has bars."

"Your father... just let this happen?"

"He claimed in his letter that he didn't know about it. He didn't seem terribly angry, though." He stared at his harp, fingers plucking listlessly. "At least it wasn't a dungeon like the ones here."

He had much to say about the dungeons and what he had found there. "No one did anything! They couldn't all have believed my brother's tales. Many were there when he took Winterfell." Theon wished he would stop that pacing. "Men I knew from childhood, who taught me how to ride and took me hunting. It can't be a common occurrence here, for crowds of women to be marched into the dungeons. Can it? I don't remember it happening when I was a child. He stopped. "I'm sorry. This is upsetting you. I--I'll play something instead." 

Theon hadn't known a harp could sound wrathful.

One night, when he had had more wine, he returned to it. "Father took me down there once. I can't remember how old I was. He told me the screams were from bad men who were being punished. When he asked me if I wanted to see one of the prisoners being excruciated and I refused, he was pleased, I think." His face was placid as he gazed at Theon. "I'm sorry. I'm not fit company. You can go back to your room now."

It wasn't that Theon couldn't sympathize, he thought later as he lay awake. Domeric had spent several years in the Vale, absorbing lessons about brotherhood and knightly honor and the protection of the weak which would be worse than useless to him in his own rightful home. _Does he expect useful advice from me? Fool! Doesn't he see what a mess my own life is?_. But the Boltons were not at war with the Vale. Perhaps he could survive long enough to become Lord of the Dreadfort, if he had the sense to deal properly with Ramsay.

And there was the other thing. The first time he'd caught that appraising look on that fine face, he had believed himself mistaken. The second time, it had been accompanied by a blush, and he decided the boy had gone nearsighted from too much reading. He recognized the look. He'd gotten it in the past by from many women and more than a few men and, in the past, he had liked it. Kyra had looked at him like that, and Esgred-who-was-not-Esgred. (Not Robb, though. If only... but, no, he could not think of Robb. It would take dragonfire to burn that bridge any more thoroughly.) In the past, he would have found it flattering. Domeric was handsome, accomplished... companionable, if odd. But now...

It wasn't even that he was a captive, and no one would defend him. Domeric was not his brother... but the Bastard had been making of his body, cut by cut and tooth by tooth, a thing that could only ever be pleasing to the Bastard. _Do you like this, Reek? Perhaps I should make you a woman in fact, as well as deed._ He curled his lacerated frame up tighter at that memory, whimpering. His cheeks might fill back in and his hair be cut evenly and he might have new boots with artificial toes and gloves with padded fingers but the scars underneath, they would always disfigure him. It was wrong for anyone to want to look at him. He didn't know how to respond anymore.

One day Theon entered to find his host sitting down with a slip of paper in hand and faint satisfaction on his face. Satisfaction, and something else. Pity? He gestured for Theon to sit in the chair next to him. Theon felt his heart leap into his throat, but he thought his trembling was too slight to be visible as he settled down as best he could. When he did, Domeric spoke in his quiet voice.

"One shallow grave. A woman, judging from the hair and clothing. Another hole, filled with what seems to be children's clothing. All the clothes were roughspun, bloodstained, and slashed as if with a sword. There was blood on the floor of the mill, too. You were telling the truth."

As the words came, Theon's head dropped until he held it in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. "You believed me..."

"I believed you believed. It was worth investigating, though I suspected you might have gone mad with guilt and invented that story to ease your conscience." 

"'Gone mad with guilt?' You read too much."

"Perhaps." A soft sound, as of two shoulders moving up and down. "I don't know how much of the North will believe it, but as far as I'm concerned your name is cleared."

" _Cleared!_ " The word felt sharp as it came out of him. He felt his lips curl up in a bitter grin. "What happens now?"

"You won't be guarded. You'll have the run of the castle but for the stables and the armory, and the gates."

His head jerked up and he stared at Domeric. 

"You think it strange? I'm letting you out because I can get away with it. You kill your foster brothers, the sons of Ned Stark, and all the North howls for your blood. You kill three smallfolk... Many would consider that no worse a crime than stealing sheep. But you're not one of those, I think. You consider it murder, but you did it anyway. I can't understand..." He stopped himself, shook his head. "I promised no more questions about it, didn't I?"

" _You_ consider it murder."

"Yes. I suppose I must." His captor gazed at him for a moment, and then reached out to gingerly take Theon's left hand. He turned it over with his own elegant fingers, examining it as if he were an augur trying to read the future. He asked mildly, "You're missing toes, too. How many?"

Domeric had not touched him since that first interview. Theon could feel his hand resting on Domeric's palm, the cool dryness of the other's skin, the thick calluses at the tips of the fingers where they held on lightly to the maimed thing at the end of his arm. Strangely, he did not want to pull away. "Two," he said.

Domeric paused, then nodded. "A finger for the mother, a toe for each of the little ones. If any man asks you can tell them you've been punished."

Ramsay's frenzied eyes, his excitement as the knife dug in. "That's not why I was flayed."

The long fingers tightened briefly, fiercely. "I know. I _know_ why you were hurt. I hate why you were hurt. I want it to mean--something different." A small line had appeared between Domeric's eyebrows. "Something that makes sense, no matter how harsh. And I--don't want to have to punish you any more. I could cut off all the rest of your digits and it wouldn't bring anyone back to life." He was still staring down, but his eyes were unfocused. He released Theon's hand, and looked up. "You won't do anything like it again, I think. Not if it makes you feel like this."

Theon touched his shaking hand to his cheek. _Weeping again, like a girl._ He felt dizzy. With relief? Something else that made no sense. Domeric was speaking again now, telling him he could go away now if he wanted, go back to his chambers and be alone, or to the godswood, or to the library if he liked, anywhere he wanted as long as he didn't try to escape...

"Domeric, for the god's sake," he said, "just shut up and play the fucking harp."

*****************

"Ravens are such interesting birds. You have to keep careful track of them, or you'll forget where they belong. Then you won't be able to tell which way is home for any one of them, except by setting it loose." He couldn't keep from staring out the window as Domeric spoke. The view from the rookery encompassed the Weeping Water, and a vast swath of dark forest. _He is out there somewhere._ It was wrong to find the massive walls of the Dreadfort reassuring, but if they were between him and Ramsay how else could he feel? "Theon, will you take a look at this for me?" He turned to find the acting lord of the castle holding out a slip of paper to him. Curiously, he opened it up and began reading, his eyes growing wide as he absorbed the contents.

"Send it!" he gasped, thrusting the paper back with a shaking hand. "What have you been waiting for?"

Domeric accepted the note, but he was frowning slightly. "I will, if that's what you want. But, Theon... Please think about what might come of this. Robb Stark most likely believes you dead. When he finds out otherwise, he may name me a hopeless dupe and demand that I give him your head." The look on his face was definitely worried. "We haven't been able to find them. We may never be able to find them. And even if we do... well, you still burned his castle."

"I don't care. Tell him I didn't kill his brothers." He felt delirious. _Robb must know. He must believe me._ He couldn't quite get enough air. Imagining what Robb must think of him made him feel like he was dying. _Perhaps it would be easier, if he demanded my head._ He had no more words to explain himself now than when he had first spilled the tale weeks ago. Theon reached out with both hands and gripped the other man by the arms, staring into his eyes, trying to make him understand. "Domeric. I know I've... Robb and I... It will never be all right. I can't undo..." He was holding convulsively--hard enough to bruise, if he had not been still recovering his strength, but the other never flinched or looked away. "It's the only hope I have. A raven." He let go, slumping. "You wrote this letter for me... I don't care if it costs me my head. If there's a chance he'll believe."

Domeric gazed searchingly at him for what seemed like an eternity, then produced a stick of pink wax. Theon observed, strange and light and empty, as he sealed the letter, attached it to a raven, and tossed the bird out the window. Together they watched as it winged its way south.

" _I_ care. I like your head where it is." sighed Domeric a few moments later, taking the lead as they descended the stairs. Theon studied the slender, graceful form ahead of him. He did not resemble his brother even slightly when you couldn't see his eyes.

"Why?" Theon asked, and then "I'm not even so appealing as I once was." The thought of what he had done to Robb was fresh and bleeding in his mind now, and what Ramsay had done to him was with him always. Domeric seemed impossibly young and incongruously innocent in the dark stairwell.

He stopped, his hand on the wall, and turned around on the stairs, looking up at Theon. "Why not? I don't see why we can't be friends. You are appealing, I... I don't think I've ever met anyone like you. And I don't have anyone else. Not here."

"I'm your hostage."

"You were Robb Stark's hostage."

"I was Ned Stark's hostage. And that was different."

Domeric looked away, as he always did when he was feeling something he didn't like. "Perhaps... and yet, it's not my choice to have to keep you here. I wish I could have met you under different circumstances." He looked up with a forced smile, and Theon was shocked to see bright despair in his eyes. "You may have saved my life, though. By making my brother hunt for you. If I hadn't come upon that scene, I would have ridden right into the Dreadfort. I would never have looked in the dungeons to find out what he was. I wanted a brother so much, but he was not what I wanted..."

"Brothers seldom are." Theon found himself responding. "I should tell you about mine sometime." 

Domeric's eyes were searching now, slightly hopeful. "Would you? I'd like that. I'd like to hear about your family--" He cut himself off, realizing something. "There's a reason I wrote that letter today. I haven't told you yet. We should... the godswood, I think. Follow me."

Theon did, and though he tried to get Domeric to talk, he wouldn't tell him anything until they reached the foot of the squat, massive weirwood, its face carved in a hideous scream. Domeric looked at this with distaste, and led him around to the other side of the trunk. "I'm sorry. I didn't remember it being that ugly."

"Will you get on with it?" From his companion's demeanor, he gathered that this was not good news. His imagination was a torment.

"Very well." Deep breath. "Your father has died. You are now the rightful king of the Iron Islands."

For a moment he felt nothing. The moment stretched. Theon waited for something to happen inside himself, but his heart refused to deliver.

"Theon..." Domeric stretched out a hand, then withdrew it, unsure. 

Theon shook himself. "I'm all right. I--" _I was expecting something so much worse,_ he realized with wonder.

"You weren't close. That makes sense, of course. You were away for so many years." Domeric laughed ruefully. "I should have known. It's been almost as long since I saw my own father."

 _Roose Bolton, the cold-blooded leech lord. No, he would not have been affectionate._ "He didn't care much for me." Theon admitted. _What a fool I am._ "He never will now. He probably never would have in any case. How... How did it happen?"

"He was walking along a high bridge one night and fell off."

Theon shook his head. It didn't seem real. Perhaps that was why he could feel nothing. "That... seems unlikely."

"It's what I was told."

Suddenly the other part of what Domeric had told him sunk in. "You said I was king."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Don't." He choked, his belly seizing up. After a moment, he realized he was trying to laugh. Domeric was by his side, his hand on one shoulder. _King!_ He remembered his few loyal Ironborn, dead by his command, most because they chose to fight for his idiotic cause, three because he had _ordered_ their deaths. There was more. There the flaying knife, the sound of his own pathetic screaming, how he had begged " _cut it off, cut it off!_ " three separate times, and how every time he had sworn to himself he would not do so again, only to break so easily the next. And he remembered the things Ramsay had made him do before finally complying.

He had fallen to his knees, emitting a hideous croaking laugh. Domeric knelt next to him, his arms around him. Theon closed his eyes, so he could be weak, could lean for a few moments against the other man without seeing Ramsay. "King." he said weakly. "They will laugh at me." They certainly would, if they could see him clinging so wretchedly to his own captor. He made himself push away, getting shakily back to his feet. At least he was not crying this time. At least there was that. "Who sits the Seastone Chair in my absence, then? I suppose it is my sister. I wish her joy of it." The thought of Asha was a surprising comfort. She had come to Winterfell to save him. Might she forget his foolishness, and ransom him back?

Domeric stood up, brushing fallen leaves off his knees and dashing Theon's embryonic hopes. "One of your uncles has taken command."

"Victarion?" The Iron Captain had never thought much of Theon. He would never bargain for the life of an incompetent nephew, especially if he wished to occupy the throne himself. _More like wait for me to be killed, and then swear revenge_ Theon thought bitterly.

The news got worse. "I believe the man's name is Euron."

"Oh." Theon felt like sinking back to his knees, but it would have looked ridiculous so soon after getting up. _They will laugh at me, and then my uncle will cut my heart out. I have no place on the Iron Islands._ "Then you can forget about calling me 'Your Grace' again." A sudden, fierce pang of worry went through him. "Asha. Do you know... Is my sister..."

"She still occupies Deepwood Motte, as far as I know... but perhaps not for long. There was more to the message." A sparkle of suppressed excitement entered Domeric's eyes. "I don't think they know you're still alive. Your other uncle--you really have a lot of them--has called for a kingsmoot. It's historic--there hasn't been one for thousands of years, not since Urron Redhand's massacre.--no, I'm sorry, that's not important. Your sister will have to go if she wants a chance at the throne."

Theon shivered. He felt the thick walls of the Dreadfort envelop him, separating him from Euron now as well as Ramsay. _Have I really become such a craven?_ "But Asha can take care of herself. Better than I can." he said as much to himself as to his companion. Asha knew the Iron Islands and their ways; Theon had learned to his sorrow that he did not.

"Theon... do you want to go home?"

He wanted to laugh again, but managed to swallow it this time. "I have no home."

"Really? There's nothing at all for you there?"

 _Nothing_ Theon thought, but it wasn't quite true. Asha might think him a fool and tell him so, but she would also embrace him and tell him it would be all right. She had done as much when they were children and she found him weeping over some new trick or cruelty of his brothers'. She would take him to see their mother, as she had wanted to do when he first returned to the Iron Islands. _Mother._ He had called that word often enough in the months since he had lost Winterfell, along with the names of every god he had ever heard of. None had answered him, of course, unless one of them had sent Kyra with her keys... and her rock. But Alannys Greyjoy was not a god. Mother was mortal, was almost certainly gone already, and he had given up his one chance to see her again. For what? He could no longer recall.

"You see," Domeric said gently, "There is something you want to go home to after all."

"Why are you asking me this? You know I can't leave."

Domeric turned his eyes to the blank back of the heart tree. "And yet, you don't seem to want to be here."

"What has that to do with anything?"

He paused, then spoke slowly, considering his words carefully before speaking. "I could have kept you safe here. For a long time, maybe even indefinitely, depending on Father. But that possibility just flew out the rookery window along with the bird. Robb Stark knows where you are and who has you. He doesn't know if you're telling the truth, though I did my best to convince him. A raven can only carry so much paper. He may be convinced. I hope he is. I... don't think he would order you flayed, since his father outlawed it. He could still demand your head, though." As he spoke, he had turned his own head back to Theon, and now fixed him with those eyes again. "You've been punished enough, if it even was punishment. I have no intention of taking off your head, Theon."

Theon stared back. It was impossible to look away from that gaze, luminous in the arboreal gloom, and it was almost impossible not to _believe_ if just for a moment. He wanted to. He wanted to think that Domeric would not kill him, just as he wanted so desperately to think Robb would never ask him to, no matter what he deserved. His arms were wrapped around himself, and he felt the fingers of his left hand dig into his arm so hard it hurt, so hard that the stump of his missing finger ached in sympathy. He had once been a boy inclined to delusions, and fond of pretty lies. 

The gaze grew sad, and fell away. "You don't believe me. I'm... not surprised. Keeping you here is my duty, and I'm bound by duty to my family and country just as you are." The faint smile crept back onto his face then. "Still, I may end up surprising you."

***********

The white stallion pranced back and forth in the courtyard in front of him. "You'll need a more confident seat if you hope to keep up with me." Domeric laughed. 

" _Do_ I hope to keep up with you?" Theon wondered aloud. Domeric had gone to his room himself in the early hours of the morning, his eyes bright with excitement. "Get dressed and come with me. There's something... but we need to move quickly, and keep your hood up, I don't want us to get caught." This had been too much for his curiosity, and he had indeed dressed himself with more alacrity than usual. He was glad of his new boots, the ones with the missing toes filled in, because Domeric insisted on moving fast. He was not very sneaky, Theon thought as they moved through the gloomy halls to the stables. The pink cloak was too conspicuous for stealth, so they went for speed, Theon's heart pounding as he followed behind with his own dark gray hood pulled up to hide his white-streaked hair. They didn't speak a word until they reached the stables.

Theon could hardly credit his eyes when he saw two horses, the white Domeric called Reckless Moon and a bay, with bulging saddlebags. "You really mean to do it," he accused Domeric when the latter had dismissed the stableboys. "Have you gone mad?" 

He shrugged. "I thought you would enjoy going out." 

"What of Ramsay?" he demanded as he carefully climbed into his saddle. 

Domeric looked away, mounting his own horse. "I've had word of his... activities... elsewhere. He would hardly expect us to go riding out together in any case." Some few of Ramsay's men had been caught the day after their flight. He had had them separate, so that his own trail would be harder to follow, and there had been no more fugitives found since. Theon had noted, as a matter of course, the bow that Domeric slung around his back and the sword and dagger at his hip. He himself was unarmed.

"He would not expect you to go mad, you mean."

"Perhaps I was already mad." Domeric had a slight smile on his face, a sad, chilly thing which Theon had not seen since the day they had first met. "It's in my blood, if you hadn't heard." With that, he had turned and trotted out of the stables.

In the courtyard, he looked at Theon speculatively. "I'd heard you were a fine rider. Why don't you show me that ironmen know how to handle more than ships?" He wheeled around toward the gate. Theon urged his horse into a canter, prickled. It had been an eternity since he had last been in a saddle, since his Smiler had burned. He pulled the hood of his cloak tight around his face, but the sentry at the gate must have thought it was more trouble than it was worth to question his lord's son.

The season had advanced quickly in the weeks since Theon made his last escape attempt. Now all the trees were bare and grasping, but the sky was turning bright blue and the cold air was clean, and he found he was indeed glad to be out of the castle, for whatever mad game this mad boy was playing. He turned to Domeric, ready for answers, but he was already urging his horse into a gallop and pulling away. "Ride with me!" he called joyfully, all traces of the strangeness that had overtaken him in the courtyard dissipated. Cursing, Theon spurred his own horse on. He found that he had not forgotten all his skill after all, although he was quick to realize that he was no match for Domeric. He found the other rider trotting along insouciantly, as he turned a bend in the road. "That's more like it!" he shouted back as he sped up. They rode along together for a while after, neither speaking nor wishing to speak, but eventually the white horse pulled ahead once more. Theon came around a copse of trees to see his companion turning off onto a side trail. What was the meaning of this strange game? His initial euphoria began to wear off, and he was starting to remember how it had been the night he escaped with Kyra. _That_ had been a game, too. He wondered, briefly, if it would be wise or foolish to abandon it and continue westward on the road.

He came upon Domeric, finally, watering his horse in a clearing where the Weeping Water ran by at a slower pace. "Don't worry. Not many can keep up with me."

Theon stared down at him. "Enough games."

He sighed. "I'm sorry. When I ride, I forget myself. Will you dismount? Here," and to Theon's renewed astonishment, he removed his sword and bow and lay them on a nearby rock. 

When Theon had cautiously placed both feet on the ground and stood facing him, though, Domeric spread his arms out, as if to encompass all the wilderness surrounding them. "This is it. Theon, you once told me that your father's invasion was... 'delusional stupidity', I think you said, and that you never wanted it and wished it hadn't happened. But if you became king, you could stop it. You could call them back, and war here would stop, and I could ride south to fight Lannisters."

But Theon was shaking his head. _Domeric Bolton is a foolish boy, perhaps even as foolish as Theon Greyjoy._ Oddly, the thought did not make him feel contempt. It made him feel protective. _If he is not careful, he will end up like me._ "You will ride to the dungeons to fight rats, my lord," he said softly, "no one will believe that I outran you." _And I would never be chosen by the kingsmoot. All I could do is get in Asha's way._

"You're worried about me? That's--but you needn't be. You almost escaped once before. I would tell them you got a hold of the weapons somehow and took me hostage and then abandoned me when I became too much trouble." A shrug. "They may call me a fool, but I don't care about such things."

" _I'm_ calling you a fool. Do you really think I could even make it to the Stony Shore?"

"You tried once before, and you were on foot then."

 _Yes, but then Ramsay was behind me. Now..._ The morning sky seemed dimmer somehow, and the chill breeze cold enough to blow right through his cloak. "I could never make it in time." he heard himself say. It was a long road west; past Winterfell, all the way to the Stony Shore. Ramsay would know the route he would have to take. Ramsay would be waiting.

"You wouldn't go? You wouldn't even try?"

 _Why is he trying so hard to convince me?_ The suspicion slid into his mind like a knife. _More false hope._ There had been other times. Once he had found his cell door unlocked, but when he tried to sneak out, they were waiting for him, they had caught him in a circle and laughed at him, a fine shared jape. He still remembered the first blow to his stomach, knocking him down as he tried to break free, the feeling of all those hands, passing him around. He'd thought Kyra had been the last of Ramsay's pranks, the last and the cruelest, had it not been interfered with. Or had it been interfered with at all? He had always suspected it on some level, that these last few weeks of kindness were really some hidden cruelty. _No, it's not right, it doesn't make sense, Ramsay hates his brother_ a desperate voice whispered in the back of his mind, but reason had no place in what was going on inside him now.

"Are you all right?" Theon saw the pale eyes beneath the furrowed brow, and this time he knocked the hand away before it could touch him. He took a step back, his eyes searching the clearing. He saw no signs of anyone but themselves, and the bare foliage left little room for hiding. It meant nothing.

"Where are they? Waiting down the road?" he snarled. "Your guards, your... brother. I won't play these games. I won't give you an excuse." He wanted to end this, just end it now, because they would do what they wanted with him anyway. 

" _Theon!_ " The sound of his name was a shock to him, the world slipping back into focus for an instant. Domeric's eyes were ablaze with anger, the first time Theon had ever seen them so. He opened his mouth to say he knew not what, an apology or a request for space, for time to get his head back on, but Domeric was faster. "You always see my brother, don't you?" He was _dangerously_ fast. There was the flash of light as he drew his dagger, and no time to pull away before the other man had his right hand and now there was the panic, rising again, but it was not the blade but the leather bound hilt he felt in his fingers as the healthier man yanked his now-armed hand upward.

To lay the dagger point against his own throat.

"You see?" He panted, "It wouldn't do me a bit of good now if I had a thousand--" His monologue was cut short by a horrified Theon, who yanked back hard on his own hand, trying to pull the blade away. He had Domeric's right wrist in his left hand now, trying to pull it away from his own, and Domeric was trying to keep the knife point where it was, but he was too strong and he overcompensated, letting out a cry and jerking his head back as a thin line of red appeared on his throat. The movement unbalanced him and as he tried to step back his foot hit a loose, round pebble and he went down, the breath leaving his lungs as he fell back onto a patch of dying weeds. He took Theon down with him, on top of him, and by some miracle the dagger was planted point-down into the soft soil next to them. Theon drew it out with a curse and hurled the wretched thing away from him. They heard a splash.

"Idiot," he muttered as he yanked at the collar of Domeric's cloak with his right hand. His left was still around the other man's wrist, pinning it to the ground. "All you had to do was say my name. Say my name and I would have come back to myself." Somehow he got the clasp undone and clawed away the furs concealing his neck. 

The dark head tilted back to allow easier access. "How... could I... know? You never... tell me... how to help." he gasped. There was a smear of red staining the white skin, but the cut had not gone deep. There would be less talking, and much more blood if it had. Theon lowered his head to the other man's shoulder, and rested there a moment in relief. He felt the racing pulse slow in the wrist he still held, heard the wheezing breaths even out. It had all been foolishness. They were alone out here. No guardsman had heard their lordling cry out and run to his aid. No Ramsay. "You shouldn't have thrown away my dagger. It might have hit one of the horses."

"The Others take your dagger. I'm amazed you've managed to stay alive this long."

"I... I'm sorry. I try not to feel things so strongly. I've never known how to deal with you, in truth. How I felt for you, and couldn't do anything for you. It's why I wanted to send you away." Domeric for once didn't look away as Theon met his eyes, and he could see the frustration there that must have been building for weeks. He saw something else there, too. He was aware of the lithe frame underneath him, the heat inside himself, and now, _now_ (and with this man of all people) the undeniable affirmation that his body still knew how to respond to such an invitation.

He shut his eyes and leaned down and _kissed_ , hard, so hard that his broken teeth hurt. He didn't know what to expect, only that he must prove he still _could_ , after all Ramsay had done, had threatened to do, might still do if he ever... Theon did not expect tenderness, did not expect it when Domeric's lips opened up and kissed him back. This was another fear, a different fear: half-remembered from another Theon, somehow sweet. He tasted it for as long as he could stand, as their tongues touched, then he wrenched himself away to look into those pale eyes once more. "Is this what you want?" He meant the question to be rough, but his voice came out unsure. Vulnerable.

Domeric smiled wide and joyful so his eyes crinkled up, like icebergs melting into a warm sea, and Theon wondered how he could ever have thought that this man resembled Ramsay. "Oh, Theon." he sighed, reaching up to brush away a streak of whitened hair, "I'd completely lost hope..."

They might have slept, afterwards, curled up spent and warm against each other. The sun had moved high overhead when Theon felt a curious snuffling at his ear, and twitched over to see Domeric's big white horse standing over him. It nosed insistently at his face, and snorted loudly. Domeric squirmed around in his arms, and looked up. "He's right, you know. We've been here too long." He pushed aside the pink cloak that covered them both and got to his feet, readjusting his clothes. Theon sat up, refastened his belt reluctantly. He couldn't remember the last time he had gone to sleep, even for a short nap, without waking up in a cold sweat.

"It's... been a while." He admitted. _A while since it was any good._ "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Domeric was sliding the bottle of cooking oil back into a hastily unpacked saddle bag. He smiled faintly. "If you thought I was complaining, you need to have your ears cleaned. Theon, we can't put this off any longer. We'll be missed soon, if we aren't already."

The choice ahead, whether to go back or go on, was even thornier now than it had been just hours ago. He did not relish the prospect of returning to the Dreadfort nor of riding west, through lands where he would be hunted by every man including Ramsay Snow to return to a family that did not want him and might want the end of him. In point of fact, the only notion which appealed to him was to seize Domeric about the waist and have him again, right here and now, before things could get any more complicated. He wanted to hear his _name_ cried out, over and over again... and perhaps he could, but not here. He eyed his new lover. "You're really willing to let me go? Still?"

The smile grew a little strained. "Like I said, I like your head the way it is. If there's an order for it, it will be easier for me if you're not there."

"You're used to getting away with things, aren't you?"

"I can't deny it. I like to think it's because I'm so handsome and charming, but I suspect it's really because people are afraid of my father."

"You can't expect to disregard every warning and consequence forever. Trust me. I know." Theon shook his head, feeling a weight of new anxiety settle on him. "I thought to get away with betraying my... my best friend, as though we were boys playing games in the yard. But I can't. I haven't." His old anxiety was completely crushed. "You won't let them flay me. That's the only thing I would be afraid of."

"Never." Domeric's expression became an unguarded mix of joy and fear as he realized what Theon was saying. "But I can't promise you... if the king asks for your head--"

"He has the right to ask for my head." Theon said wearily. "When he heard, he must have been... if he wants me dead I don't know what the point of living would be, anyway." He saw the light in Domeric's eyes dim, and knew he had said something cruel without intending it. He spoke quickly then, "I think he might not do it. I don't know. If he doesn't, it's because you spoke for me, Domeric, I... may not be worth the effort, but thank you."

Domeric looked at him searchingly for a moment, then smiled again. "We'll just have to wait and see then, won't we?"

********************************************************************************************************

 _Young men are all fools,_ thought Ser Gabrin as he watched his lady's nephew with his new friend in the practice yard. He had been told to keep the boy safe and to keep an eye on the bastard. He had, to his shame, totally failed at the latter task and was only doing passably well at the former. _I kept him riding north instead of south, but there's nought I can do to keep the lad from looking a besotted fool in front of anyone who cares to look,_ he thought sourly _though the Turncloak's not like to put an arrow through the one thing keeping him out of the dungeons, so he's safe on that front._ He watched as Theon Greyjoy put an arrow through a practice dummy that Domeric's shot had gone wide of. He had to grudgingly admit that the man could handle a bow, despite losing a finger and much of his strength in the dungeons below. Gabrin's charge grinned merrily and said something, probably a congratulation, his eyes shining with pleasure. _The gods help me._ It had been one thing to take the Turncloak's word on the matter of the Stark boys. Gabrin had been in charge of that investigation, and the results had warranted further searching. The search had been fruitless so far; however, Domeric still insisted to anyone who would listen that his new paramour was innocent of kinslaying. Hells, even if he was, he was still an oathbreaker, a turncloak, and a murderer and Gabrin would have felt leagues better if he were locked back up, whether in a cell or a plush chamber, it mattered not to him.

Theon turned back to Domeric and said something too quiet to hear, his smile shy and close-lipped. As far as the watching knight could tell, it appeared genuine. Perhaps it even was. _No doubt he smiled just as sweetly for Robb Stark._ He had had words with Domeric when he had returned to the Dreadfort to find the Turncloak roaming around free and, as far as he could tell, unguarded. "He's already been punished. Didn't you see the look in his eyes, when we first came upon him? I know you've seen the dungeons, the cells the... machines. No man deserves that, nor woman. I know I can't let him go like I did with the women, but I won't keep him locked in a cage." Gabrin had indeed seen the cells, and was inclined to agree with the first assessment, but when he pointed out that the headsman didn't cause pain, (or at least not for very long,) Domeric had been unreceptive. He had lost his head over a pair of scared, pretty eyes. _The gods help me,_ he thought again. He seemed like such a nice, quiet boy, courteous to everyone, but that only ensured you were off your guard when he ran off on foolish exploits. He turned away from the touching scene, disgusted. The things his lady would say to him when she heard about this did not bear thinking about... and he still had a second task to deal with. With some relief, he turned his mind to more useful schemes, and to the last girl in the infirmary. A brave girl, with plenty of nerve and more sense, perhaps, than any other inhabitant of this wretched, gloomy pile. And she would be almost recovered by now. _Yes. Yes, she might do at that._ With an energized step, he moved off to attend to his duty.

***********

They climbed the stairs to the rookery together every day now. Domeric didn't know whether he felt more frustrated or relieved each time he saw Maester Tybalt shake his head. _How long does it take for a raven to fly south, and how long for a king to make up his mind?_ In those first delirious days, he had been afraid that the letter would come instantly, had demanded daily reports although there was no way that a reply could arrive so fast. The thought of having to execute Theon, just as he finally really _had_ him, was terrifying in a way he had never experienced before. As the days passed, he had had to calm down or go mad. Even Theon had told him so as he had paced the floor. "You may think you don't care what a fool you're making of yourself, but there's a limit even for you. I swear, you're more attached to my head than I am. Come here." Theon had his own ways of making them both relax. His seeming resignation to his fate, whichever way it might go, calmed Domeric. The thought of a pardon began to seem more and more likely. 

One day, as he watched Theon bid farewell to his ex-bedwarmer, the commoner girl, the unlikely though occurred to him that Robb Stark might not only pardon Theon, but actually _forgive_ him. _What then?_ Then Theon would go flying back to confess his guilt and his love and Domeric's life could go back to the way it had been and ought to be. It would not be so bad, he told himself. He now separated his life into two portions: The Time Before Theon, when everything had been easy and simple, and Now, when everything was ecstatically fragile and impossible and anything could happen. He suspected, in the small part of his mind that was still thinking rationally, that he was riding for a fall and must be prepared for the worst. Perhaps some escape could be arranged for Theon, if it came down to that. He doubted the turncloak was quite as resigned to his fate as he claimed. _What would that make me, though?_ He sometimes lay awake in the night wondering how this could have happened to him, if feeling this way for a criminal and an enemy of his homeland was a product of his bad blood. He would nestle closer to Theon, then. The calm he'd cultivated for years was shattered, but it didn't _feel_ bad, in fact, nothing had ever felt more _right_. 

How had it happened? He remembered his aunt's tower. She had not deprived him of anything, not news and not books, and when the news of the Ironborn invasion came she gave him all the books on the Iron Islands her library had possessed. They had been reavers and rapers since the beginning of time, to all appearances, and the latest of them, Theon Greyjoy, an oathbreaker, turncloak and kinslayer in the bargain. Of course he hadn't recognized him in the tortured, terrified, half-starved fugitive. He would have expected a ravening monster, but the ravening monster had been elsewhere. The prisoner's fear and pain had fascinated him at first, and his defiance had impressed him, and by the time he learned his identity, it was too late and there could be no revisions. Then--then! he had seen him trying to protect the girl, which was not the sort of action his imagination associated with brutal raiders. It didn't help that he cleaned up so well, either. When the filth was off you could see how attractive he had been--still was, despite his broken teeth and hollow cheeks and soul-rending guilt. Domeric hadn't expected that, though he perhaps should have, and he certainly did not expect the mad story about the miller's boys. He hadn't believed it at first (who would?) but strangely, it was the guilt which had convinced him to look into it. _Just miller's boys._ He expected that most nobles would be relieved to find the Stark boys alive and a couple of peasant children dead in their place, and few of them would think any further on it. It had troubled Domeric to realize that he was no different. Only Theon's agonized remorse had made him even think of the crime as such, and then he couldn't bring himself to punish it. _What would be the point? He has already been punished, is still being punished._ As a boy growing up in the Vale, he had been enthralled by tales of noble knights, had strongly considered becoming one, but he was starting to think he wouldn't be any good at it. Knights were supposed to protect the innocent, but a murderer had had to prompt him into remembering that the innocent were actually people. _Theon would make a better knight than I, if he listened to his conscience._ The memory disturbed him. It was the first real evidence of blood telling.

Domeric couldn't remember the age he had been at when he first learned about his bad blood. Had it been after his mother had died? He remembered that he had been crying when he had come to his father, all naked and covered in leeches. He had stopped crying then, perhaps because he had been too frightened. "W--why?" he had asked. 

"This is to get rid of my bad blood," Roose Bolton had explained dispassionately. "Do you know what that means, Domeric? Bad blood?" Domeric could only shake his head. "We all have it, we Boltons, to some greater or lesser extent. Desires, strong emotions, which can become... inconvenient. People don't understand. They take it poorly. Therefore," and he gestured down at his leech-laden form. "You have it too, or you will when you get older. Perhaps you will be less afflicted. I have reason to think so. But when.. if you begin feeling certain impulses, you may find you have a use for the leech."

Domeric had taken a step back. His eyes fixed on a small white leech on his father's shoulder. As he watched, shuddering, it reddened and bloated, its skin becoming almost transparent. He couldn't imagine anything more disgusting. "What are imp--impulses?"

His father gave a laugh so cold the memory still chilled him. "Ah, my son," he said, "You'll know them when you feel them."

After that day, he had tried hard not to feel anything for a while. There were always things to occupy his mind. Maester Tybalt had been pleased with the way he had thrown himself into his studies, and his music tutor with his sudden dedication, and all the men of the castle had cheered him the first time he had jumped his horse. It must be all right, he told himself, to grow fascinated with history, or to feel sad when he played a sad song, or to ride so fast he became like the wind, and nothing seemed to matter at all. It must be, if so many people thought so. But in all other interactions, he tried to restrain himself to nothing but politeness, in case he started to feel mysterious _impulses._ Even his father had seemed pleased by his behavior, or at least had not mentioned leeches again, so he knew he must be doing right.

Things were different when he had gone to serve his aunt. She had seemed pleased by his manners at first, but one day when he had been with her a month or so she had called him to her and, taking his chin in her hand so that he could not look away from her eyes, told him, "Quiet is nice in its place, but boys ought to make at least a little trouble. Do you want to tell me anything?" Domeric had no idea what she might want to know, so he had begun to tell her of how Rhaenyra Targaryen had warred against her brother for the Iron Throne, a story he thought might interest her for some reason. She had only given and exasperated sigh and said, "Gods, child, go outside and watch the servant boys playing. The way you act worries me." So he had gone out. The other boys had been disconcerted by him at first but one, a stableboy a little older than Domeric, had invited him to join them. He had little in common with them, but he learned their games quickly and some of them knew the most _fascinating_ tales, stories he had not read in any book. When he was thirteen or so, the same boy gave him his first kiss in the pile of straw behind the stables. He knew he was feeling strange desires then, but the memory of the leeches was a distant one, leaving him to care so little that one day he seized on his sweetheart without making sure they were alone. Before he knew what was happening, the stablemaster had them both by the ears and was hauling them out of the empty stall and into the harsh sunlight. "We didn't do nothing!" The other boy had proclaimed when the knight had deposited him in the yard.

"You, I'll speak to later," the man promised him as he dragged Domeric off to face his aunt. He presented the boy, with a single sentence of explanation, and then he was gone and there was only Lady Dustin, standing in front of her desk with eyebrows raised.

"I suppose I should blame myself for telling you to play with peasants. I don't regret it, though, it's been good for you. And at any rate, you aren't likely to get any bastards on a stableboy." She laughed at his expression. "Oh come now. I'm not such a fool as to tell you to give up these boy's games altogether. I know how little good it would do. You will remember, however, that you have a duty to your house, and to mine. One day you will take a wife and together you will continue your line. When that day comes, I trust you will not insult the noble lady, whomever she may be, by being indiscreet with your grooms."

She _was_ annoyed with him, though, he could tell, and he couldn't take it anymore. "Is it because of my bad blood?" he blurted out.

"Your _what_?" She demanded, and then made him tell her about the leeches, and how he had impulses he must control. Her brows drew together, and he could tell she was _really_ angry now, and when she could speak the first words out of her mouth were "Utter rubbish!" Petrified, he could only watch as she strode towards him and knelt in front of him, seizing both his hands. "You play the harp very well. You know this because I would not have you do it in front of company otherwise. Where do you think you got your musical skill?" When he only stuttered in confusion, she clarified, "You did not get it from your father," and then he understood.

"My mother... she used to sing to me. She had a very pretty voice, and she knew lots of songs."

Lady Dustin nodded. "Your mother. My Bethany. Of course she did. And do you think, child, that _she_ had bad blood?" He shook his head. "You are as much hers as his, and you are my blood as well. I'll hear no more such talk. You are ordered to put it out of your head." She was cooling down now, her voice calmer. "House Bolton is an ancient line, with an unusually bloody history. And your father is an intelligent man, despite his... eccentricity. No doubt he listened too much to that gray rat of his, to get such ideas." She stood up, smiling. "Let us both forget it. This taste for other boys... it's not a thing one advertises, but it is harmless. I only ask you to restrain yourself a while yet, and be discreet with your love affairs in the future. You'll have boys of your own station to play with soon enough."

He might have forgotten discretion in a matter of moments had it been possible, but his friend from the stables never spoke to him again except for a surly, "Yes, m'lord. No, m'lord." (And it had been this boy who had reappeared in Domeric's thoughts years later, when he confronted Theon's haunted, suspicious eyes.) He had wondered for a while what the stablemaster had said or done to him, but then came Redfort and squiredom and boys who could read and ride with him. Then he'd _belonged._ It hadn't taken Lord Redfort's sons long to take the measure of their Northern guest, the skills he'd cultivated, the fact that he never cried even after the most thorough trouncing in the practice yard, the usefulness of a calm demeanor when making mischief. He'd enjoyed his resulting popularity. Grown-ups liked him for his quiet, studious manner, boys liked him for what he could do on his horse, and girls liked him for what he could do on his harp. If he didn't like them back in quite the same way, that was all right, his friends could reap the benefits. He'd gotten enough kisses, and more, of his own, though light and insubstantial (to be fair, all kisses were light and insubstantial compared to the ones he was getting now.) There had been laughter and adventure and sunlight, warmth enough to thaw his reserve. Was that how Theon had felt, taken away from his cruel homeland and uncaring father? From what Theon had told him, he didn't think so. The Ironborn had always felt like an outsider, save with a single brother, but Domeric had been embraced. _What a waste._ He should have had a chance to have a family.

 _Four from the Redfort, one from the Dreadfort!_ When he was with them it was easy to obey his aunt, at least in the matter of dismissing unpleasant ideas. Indeed, he had stopped believing in his father's words. Nothing about what he was feeling seemed wrong, and if he could not judge himself, no one he cared for seemed to find much wrong with him either. There had been one instance of an overly nosy septon with opinions about boys kissing boys, but his reasons seemed unconvincing and in truth the disapproval only added to the spice. His time in the Vale had been good, so good. As he grew into a man, he began to dread leaving it, putting off for as long as possible his return to the Dreadfort and his cold, impassive father and loneliness. Eventually, though, he must leave, though he managed to get permission to visit his aunt once again. He'd had some vague idea that his aunt could get him a wife, who might if nothing else be good company, but then...

Then Robb Stark had called his banners.

 _That_ opportunity had seemed heaven-sent. An army to join, battles to be fought in a just cause, and--just maybe!--comrades to make love to before the fight. Domeric was quite capable with sword and lance, and he _knew_ his skills on a horse would make him a great warrior. Perhaps he could even impress his father... but even if he couldn't, he was damn certain he could impress _somebody._ He'd made no secret of his excitement, and his aunt had smiled indulgently and gave dry praise to his patriotic zeal until the day before he was set to leave, when she gave him a draught prepared by some village witch that had left him insensible to the world until he had woken up, head pounding, in a spacious tower room appointed with every luxury and a locked door. "I don't blame you for being an ungrateful young ass, but no nephew of mine is going off to die trying to rescue Eddard Stark. _Starks!_ " she had said disgustedly, before informing him of a number of crimes that family had committed against her own. "You'll stay up here until this is over or you're wise enough to be trusted." And there he had stayed, imagining himself the most unfortunate man in the world. (He thought of Theon every time he remembered this, and felt a little ashamed.) 

He still didn't know how his father had discovered his fate, nor what had passed between him and Lady Dustin, though she did not seem at all chastened when she had come to release him. "Your father has sent word you're to be let go. I hope you've grown wiser, though I doubt it."

He had been reading by the window, and this made him shoot to his feet, the book tumbling unheeded to the ground. "I'm to go to war?"

She sighed. "Yes, you foolish infant, but not to the south. You have a bastard brother in the Dreadfort, and he's been making himself busy killing ironmen. _No_ , let me finish. This could be serious. You must ride home and take command before your brother gets too comfortable with it. Your father sent this letter," she brandished a sealed paper, "which grants you command of his forces in the North. Present it to his castellan _before_ you confront the upstart. I don't want him to get any ideas."

Domeric barely heard her. "I have a _brother_?"

She had repeated herself many a time before sending him off. She'd given him her retainer, Ser Gabrin, which had seemed an imposition at the time though he was quite glad of it now. She'd also handed him a parting gift, a book on the Blackfyre Rebellions, "to occupy your clever mind on the way up." _Subtle, aunt._ He hadn't given it much attention (and he'd read it years before in any case.) His mind was filled with thoughts of his brother. There were rumors, his aunt had warned him, and Ser Gabrin had repeated her warnings... but people always said such things about bastards, didn't they? They couldn't all be so wicked, and his own brother was a brave warrior who had recaptured Winterfell. And if he flayed the Ironborn... well, what was that to Domeric? They were enemies, after all. He felt as though having a brother was worth forgiving anything. If he had a brother there, then returning to the Dreadfort was no longer a thing to be, well, _dreaded._

He'd had so many dreams of what could be, before the reality of Ramsay had turned his hopes into horror. Then there was Theon. Theon...

Theon was the only surprise that had been _good,_ though he had been a trouble from the start. Domeric had liked the idea of having such a captive, at first, the moment he looked into those intoxicating eyes full of fear and defiance and hope. He'd imagined himself keeping the Ironborn prince locked away, cleaning him up and nursing him back to health, a beautiful and dangerous and fragile pet to be held and protected and kept hidden from any who would harm him. That expectation, like so many others Domeric had formed lately, hadn't worked out either. It wasn't just his prisoner's misery, either, though he admitted to himself that it probably should have been. He'd seen the Theon who was hurt and afraid, and the Theon who was racked with guilt, the curious, watchful Theon, and he'd glimpsed another, a brave Theon who tried to protect helpless girls. Of the Theon who had once been famous for his smile, or the Theon who had ridden with Robb Stark to glory in the Whispering Wood, there was no sign, though he might have seen them if he'd gone south in time. If his aunt had not locked him away. She had done it for love, but that did not mean it was right. Perhaps those Theons could only exist if he was free... so in the end he'd made up his mind to let him go. It would simplify Domeric's life greatly, or so it seemed, and it would show Theon that he had been wrong to mistrust him. He'd been mistaken about the degree of that mistrust, though. He hadn't fully understood what his brother had done to Theon. He had some notion now, though.

"You and Ramsay..." he'd started once when Theon seemed fairly at relaxed.

Theon had blanched, and twitched away. "I'm not going to talk about... that. Not... not ever." His composure had been shot for the rest of the afternoon, and he hadn't wanted to make love that night. He had curled around Domeric for comfort, though. He'd held on a bit too tightly in fact, but Domeric hadn't minded, and his grip eventually loosened in sleep. It was nice to be held like that, and he was drifting off himself when Theon's hold tightened again, hard, and he began whimpering: "Reek... No... please no, not... not Reek, stop, please, I'm not..." Domeric had felt terror himself, for a moment, and confusion, before he remembered what he had been told by the Weeping Water.

"Theon!" he said loudly, "Theon. Your name is Theon Greyjoy!" There was a gasp, and then he was released, enough to wriggle around and touch the thin face and feel the tears on it. He'd pulled Theon into his arms then, and would have held him there all night if it had been required of him. He whispered his name every few minutes, in case it helped.

Eventually the sobbing slowed, and Theon pushed away. "I'm sorry," he muttered, "what a weakling I am." Domeric slid out of bed and fetched him a glass of wine. When he returned, Theon was sitting up. Domeric waited until he'd had a few sips before speaking, knowing he was playing with fire, unable to stop himself.

"What... Who is _Reek_?"

Theon looked back with dull eyes. "Reek is me." he stated tonelessly.

He had said some more after that, but Domeric suspected he hadn't got anything like the whole story. It was not so much the cruelty which horrified him as the strangeness. He supposed he could understand what might drive a man to torture for pleasure, or at least for rage, but this... this was something else. Ramsay's wilful destruction of something Domeric found so beautiful was incomprehensible, and that mystification made him so _angry_ the more he tried to understand it. How could they both want the same person in such radically different ways?

That Theon himself felt destroyed didn't help. He still misliked having his maimed hand looked at, he was shy about smiling with his broken teeth, and he insisted on bathing and changing in his own quarters. The last qualified as discretion--Lady Dustin would have approved--but Theon always kept a silk undershirt on, even in bed, to hide his scarred torso. Domeric could feel the scars underneath, wanted to run his fingers and his lips along them, but Theon had grabbed his hand when he tried to lift the shirt. "Stop it. You don't know what's under there. I don't want you _seeing_." But he had seen, some of it. He saw the marks around the ankles, and wrists when Theon's sleeves rode up, and the ones across his upper thighs. He hated them for reasons he could articulate perfectly, though he also _liked_ them, and the reason for that he couldn't have said.

So he reached to place his hand on Theon's chest, right over his heart, and looked at his face. "It doesn't make you ugly, Theon." He held that dark gaze fiercely, as though if he stared deeply enough he could accomplish with his eyes what he could not with words. _You're beautiful. Believe it_. He saw those expressive lips tremble, and thought _I've done it wrong, that wasn't the right thing to say, and now he's hurt again_ but instead he found himself flipped onto his back, his shoulders pinned to the bed as Theon whispered into his ear " _How about you just let me do the touching_?" and he was fine with this, he liked being touched by Theon. He liked the left hand especially, the way Theon held it back when he remembered to; the way he forgot, in the heat of passion, to be ashamed of it. When he felt that four-fingered grip, on his hip or his shoulder or in his hair, he knew his lover had left all horror behind for just a brief moment. It was like nothing else, being with Theon. Once in a while, though, it would have been nice to take the lead. It would have been nice to be trusted so much.

Two more Theons to add to the list, then. The arrogant pirate prince who had his way with him every night, and the frightened boy who had to be soothed from his nightmares. (Sometimes he called Robb's name in his dreams, and that hurt, but even the jealousy had a sweet taste.) How did they all fit together? _Could_ they all fit together? Domeric realized he was not good at understanding people, though he wanted to understand Theon more than anything. 

How much time did they have left, for trust or for understanding? He'd thought of his letter to Robb Stark as a parting gift, not expecting that to be the very thing which caused Theon to choose to stay. Perhaps it had been a mistake. Theon could have written to Robb safely from the Iron Islands. _Does the anxiety also add to the piquancy? Is it my blood, finally, that makes me like such strange things? But what's the harm in it?_ He remembered the day he had first taken Theon to the rookery. He had felt a guilty satisfaction when he learned that Theon had seen almost nothing of the Dreadfort outside the dungeons. _I was the one to show him. Not Ramsay._ This was Domeric's childhood home, Theon should associate it with _him_ and not his cruel brother. "It's a gloomy shithole." Theon had concluded. This was factually true, so the only possible response was to laugh. "Yes, but it's _my_ gloomy shithole." 

You could see all around the castle from here, and miles of forest besides. Domeric could have had word of a response delivered to him instantly, but by mutual agreement they climbed the tower each day. It made them feel less passive. The blow would have to fall, in one form or another, and it was better to go to meet it together.

Thus it was that Theon was with him one cloudy, chill afternoon when they found Maester Tybalt holding a letter. "From Robb?" Theon reached out a shaking hand.

The old man snatched the piece of paper away, keeping his eyes firmly on Domeric. "From your lord father," he said stiffly, holding it out so that the pink sealing wax could be seen. A disappointed Theon drifted over to the window, looking out over the walls. Domeric took the letter, frowning. He tore the seal open, wanting to deal with whatever this was so he could return to more important matters. He read.

He read again.

His eyes drifted over the letters, but he did not read. The words would not enter his brain anymore. He became acutely, painfully aware of Theon standing behind him, oblivious, watching the clouds fly by overhead. His hand closed convulsively, crushing the thin paper, and his gaze fixed onto nothing whatsoever. The stones beneath his feet seemed to hang over a void, ready to crumble at any second, and yet he could not move, dared not speak. If he stayed perfectly still, perhaps it would last forever, this final moment before the end.

 _Father. Father,_ **what have you done?**

*************

 _What has he done_ they'll curse our house for this but that doesn't matter as you turn and walk away from me with empty in your eyes and gods, gods it hurts more than i knew anything could ever hurt and i should be crying but i've forgotten how and maybe you hate me for that too, my love, you must hate me, i would have competed with a dead man for you but not a dead man put in his grave by my own father, even _i'm_ not such a spoiled fool and did my father strike the final blow himself? he didn't say nor how a title could be worth killing a king over, my noble red-headed king who was so young and brilliant who i never even got to see oh i was jealous of him but not for his power, it was never a fair contest between us but i could have lived with that and now i will never know the man never fight beside him never see what you saw i've lost him as i've lost you, you can't stand the sight of me and i don't blame you, i was ordered to lock you up again and i disobeyed but no one would ever know it from the way you keep to your chambers, why should i obey an order i loathe when life is so chaotic, what will it get me when nothing is as expected not family nor friends nor enemies i wish i could ask you, Theon, for you must know if anyone does but i can ask nothing from you now, not love nor forgiveness nor mercy but one thing, one thing i should have earned if nothing else, if i was ever kind to you, if i ever tried to help you if it ever meant anything please believe that **i knew nothing of this** , Theon i swear by all the old gods and the new Theon and your drowned god too but please give me that, i was ignorant if not innocent Theon please

Theon...

***********

The fire lit the whole night around him, casting strange shadows from the clawed branches of the trees. It lit the sky, but it cast no heat. Theon fled the burning castle in a perfect icy silence, the only sounds the crackling of his feet on dead leaves and the baying of Ramsay's girls behind him. A tree trunk loomed suddenly directly in front of him where there had been none before. He caught himself, barely, his left hand almost giving way. He cast a quick glance behind before he could stop himself. _It will be closer, it always is closer every time I check,_ and, sure enough, the burning towers of Winterfell loomed higher above the woods. One of the hounds loosed a howl, high and wild, and he shuddered as he pushed himself away and on.

He ran. There was nothing else for him. Long branches scratched at him, tried to pull his clothes away from his body, but he mustn't let them. He _ran_ , begging his limbs to obey, but the more he begged the smaller the steps they would take, and it wasn't fair, he wasn't tired at all but he was so, so afraid and the hounds were getting closer all the time. The shadows became darker and he could not see where he was going and then he was face down in the dirt and all his clothes were rags and he knew he was filthy again. He shoved himself back up knowing he had to keep running but it was too late, they were right there in front of him, and there was no more running. He stumbled backward onto his rear, giggling hysterically. Girls, of a certainty, but these were none of Ramsay's. _A queen and a lady!_

He remembered the direwolf pup Nymeria from her golden eyes and pattern of her grey and white fur, although she stood massive and proud over him now. She did not waste time staring, but started to investigate him with her nose, growling lightly. He lay paralyzed on his back, seeing only wolf. Lady was small, half the size of her sister, but then she would be, wouldn't she? Ned Stark had cut her throat before she was fully grown. As he thought this, the wolf lowered her head, whined softly, and licked delicately at Theon's own neck. When she sat back up, he could see the vast red stain spread across her breast. In a moment Nymeria, too, pulled back and the two of them stood side by side gazing at him with their yellow and gold eyes as he lifted himself to his feet.

The forest had changed. The bare, clawing trees had receded and there were now only green pines, built for winter. Turning, he caught sight of Summer and Shaggydog. They had been the ones chasing him, of course. It had always been them. "I didn't kill you." he said. It sounded feeble. "I could have. I did many terrible things. You were right to hunt me." Shaggydog growled, his teeth pulled back, but Summer wagged his tail once, twice. Theon nodded. His fear had gone. There was nowhere left to run, and no point in being afraid. He heard the flapping of wings, and turned to see Ghost, visible as a pair of red eyes on a snowbank, crows perched on every nearby branch. "You too?" His heart began, unaccountably, to beat faster. He turned again, saw poor Lady with her slashed throat and mournful eyes. Next to her, the great she-wolf vast as a realm.

Nymeria stepped aside.

And there he was. Theon stepped forward, couldn't help himself. The wolf's body was as big as he remembered. It stepped forward to meet him. The head... the head was _Robb._ He blinked at Theon, reproachfully. _Why doesn't he say something_ thought Theon, but maybe he couldn't, maybe he only had a wolf's voice. It didn't matter. It was Robb, _it was Robb_ , to have him back even as a voiceless chimera was more than Theon deserved. He didn't even try to hide the tears pouring down his cheeks but reached out, brushing trembling fingertips against his friend's cheek. "I'm sorry," he sobbed, "I didn't want this, and it's, it's all my fault. You were there when there was no one else, and I wasn't worth it. I didn't know who I was... I--I was a fool, and... I thought I knew, and there's no going back. I know. I've paid. If you want me to pay more, that's all... all right." He dropped his gaze, because Robb was staring at him with such sorrow, and he couldn't bear it anymore. He ran his hand through Robb's hair as he never could in the past, ( _because this is a dream_ a voice whispered in the back of his head.) The hair seamlessly blended into fur below the neck. Robb-Wind was a magnificent beast, even if he was all wrong. _Wrong..._ Theon jerked his head up. "But I never... your brothers are alive, Robb, I--, you must..." A memory came bubbling up, urgently. " _There was a letter._ I wanted to tell you, we tried... please, please tell me, if you read it be--before the end..." He trailed off because Robb was smiling, ever so softly, his eyes warm though his skin was cooling. He turned his head to the side. Theon followed his gaze to where Ghost sat under a horde of--(had they been crows before? well, nevermind)--ravens, which all took flight at once in a horrendous screeching horde. Theon followed them with his eyes, noting the few that fell from the sky as the flock disappeared over the horizon. 

When he looked back, there was Lady. She had her paws braced against Grey Wind's shoulder, so that she could reach Robb's face, at which she lapped affectionately. Grey Wind's legs buckled, and he sank to the ground under his sister's ministrations. Robb's eyes were closed now, his face pallid. Much too pallid. "No, no," Theon whispered, "don't leave me." But Robb was lying on his side. and his expression had become untouchably peaceful, Lady curled beside him. The two began to sink unresisting into the earth. "No!" Theon cried, ready to throw his own body down beside them, but at the same time there was a howl, high and irresistible, drowning out his own voice. He whirled around and saw Summer, the direwolf's head tilted back in song. Shaggydog and Nymeria joined him and then it became impossible to be resigned, impossible to desire death, impossible to even stand still. Summer abruptly got to his feet and was off, effortlessly moving through the woods. Shaggydog and Ghost were quick to follow, and Theon felt Nymeria snap at his heels and then he was running too, effortlessly now, as swift as his four-legged companions. He was all but flying through the woods, laughing, glimpsing Summer sometimes ahead of him, Nymeria to his right, Ghost to his left. _I am running with the pack_ he thought deliriously, _I will never stop._ The wind blew against him, streaming his hair back, trying to hold him back as he raced on effortlessly. But where was Shaggydog? It was only a sliver of uncertainty. It was enough. Shaggydog was behind him, and he was not a part of the pack, he was surrounded and _he was being herded._

Of course, of course, he would never be one of the wolves, not after what he had done. With that realization, everything shifted again. He flew out of the woods into an open field, direwolves all around him. He knew this place, despite the strangeness of the orange firelight on the snow. "No, stop, I don't want to be here, anywhere but here!" He tried to slow, but his legs were just as disobedient now as they had been when fleeing burning Winterfell. They propelled him on, chasing his flickering shadow, toward the Acorn River and the water mill that sat astride it. Summer ran on ahead, impossibly swift, and sat upon the doorstep, howling. The other three closed in around Theon as he stopped in front of the building. "Please," he panted, "I don't want to." Shaggydog snarled behind him and he took a step forward reflexively. Summer whined as he walked forward, his head tilted to the side, tail wagging. _Robb wouldn't make me_ he thought absurdly, but Robb was gone and could not be conjured again. He looked back, at Shaggydog who growled and Nymeria who stared implacably. Ghost was dashing back and forth, snapping at the falling snow. Or was it ash? He turned to the door. It was slightly ajar.

Summer pressed his wet nose against Theon's hand as he pushed the door open, and then the direwolf was gone. He stepped into the house. It was cold here, much colder than it had been outside. His breath fogged in front of him. The flickering light shone through the ceiling as clearly as if the house had no roof. It fell upon a dining table in the center of the room. Theon had had a woman on that table once, a laughing exuberant woman with stretch marks on her belly, but she was not here now. Domeric Bolton lay where she had been, his limbs flung haphazardly around him, his eyes wide open, irises dulled to the color of the whites. There was blood on his face, blood from his eyes ears nose, bloody foam at his lips, and _he_ stood above the body, one hand tangled in the thick dark hair and there was blood on his face too. The fleshy lips opened in a grin, and there was more blood, staining those crooked teeth red as Ramsay reached out and savagely tore the garnet from Domeric's ear, his eyes locked on Theon, still hungry.

He woke screaming and kicking, his bed a tangle of sweaty sheets and furs. He clawed at the bed frantically, searching for a body, a warm body, for Domeric who had always held him as though he were something more precious than skin and blood. There were a few confused moments before he remembered where he was now. Moonlight poured into his room, slashed into segments by the bars on his window. His fire had gone out and it was freezing. Theon wrapped himself in furs, shivering. He no longer shared a bed with Domeric, and the nightmares had returned with a vengeance. This last had been the worst by far. Why had he left? It had not been Domeric's doing, he could not even have known, but it had still felt like he was betraying Robb all over again. In the chill desolation of this night, these scruples suddenly seemed so much less important. Robb would not mind, would he? Robb would not have hated Domeric.

Theon winced as his feet hit the cold floor. He would go now, middle of the night or not. He imagined the expression on Dom's face, polite mask over sleepy annoyance as he opened the door, thawing into a smile when he saw who it was. Theon pulled his best tunic over his head, the lambswool tailored to fit him which Domeric had given as a gift when they had first become lovers. Domeric would be alive and well and warm to touch and supple to hold, and Theon would fuck him until they were both senseless, just to make sure. How long had it been? He had lost track. More than days. Weeks, maybe even a month. _Long enough for tenderness to harden..._

Pushing that doubt aside, he strode from his chambers. He was not far from Domeric's room. He knocked softly, then banged his fist against Domeric's door, called his name when there was no answer. The chill began to creep back into him. _No, no, you can't be a corpse, not you too._ There had been blood, all over his face... He tried the door, and to his amazement it opened. Theon went swiftly to the bed, tore the covers away, but found nothing. He looked around the room in consternation. Embers still glowed in the fireplace. Should he wait? No, impossible. The anxiety was already threatening to drive him mad.

He closed the door carefully behind him and hurried down the corridor. Where to find him? The sentries on the walls must know something. Down the stairs, and now he was beginning to hear men's voices. Into the courtyard, and there was milling about, the sound of horses outside the gate, and there he was, hastily dressed, standing beside Maester Tybalt. Theon started towards him, ignoring the cold stares of the guardsmen, but now the gates were opening and he was only human, so he turned to look. The first thing through the gate was the cart, and on the cart... _Kyra_?

She saw him too, and hopped down as soon as the driver stopped to run to him. He saw her eyes first, wide and gleaming with terror, but her smile was wide too, exultant. Not terror but _triumph._ "We did it, m'lord" she panted as she reached him, "I was afraid, so afraid I almost ruined my dress, but I was more scared of him running loose, so I swallowed it down. Ser Gabrin, he don't look like much, but he's clever enough for a dozen, and his trap worked. He fell right for it."

"What?" Theon said, uncomprehending. "Who?" Then he saw.

Ramsay rode not on his red horse, Blood, but a decrepit nag. His time as an outlaw had shaved weight off of him and his clothing was rough now, but he still looked fierce as ever. And he was seething with rage. _He will want to hurt me,_ thought Theon, though a part of his mind had registered the shackles. Ramsay had seen him too, and an unwholesome grin spread across his face. Without warning, he spurred his ancient horse to an unlikely speed and reined in before Theon, whose world closed in to those coarse features and mad, pale eyes. He heard Kyra take a step back, heard shouts as the men in the yard moved to intercept the Bastard, but he himself was frozen to the place he stood. 

"Ah, Reek. Did you hear? They cut off his head, the Young Wolf, and sewed on his beast's to make a pretty puppet. I wish we had been there, you and I. I've missed your company terribly." He laughed as his horse's reins were seized by a cursing soldier. He glanced backward as he was led away, beaming with all the warmth of a corpse bloating in the sun. Kyra was saying something, but he could not hear through the ringing in his ears. He watched as Ramsay was made to dismount and led to his brother, who seemed perilously slender in comparison. He said a few words, pointed toward the dungeon and the monster was dragged away. It was too late for Theon, though.

 _They cut off his head, the Young Wolf, and sewed on his beast's._ In his dream, the chimera of Robb and Grey Wind had seemed so noble and sad.

Theon fell to his knees and retched as if to bring up every meal he'd had since coming to this place.

*********

Theon had had to be carried back to his bed, where he had laid insensible for hours, his sleep plagued with nightmare visions. The maester had visited him, as had Kyra. She fed him soup with a shaking hand, whispering news in his ear. She was distressed because Ramsay was not to be executed, and she meant to leave the Dreadfort again the next day and not return. "I can't leave," Theon told her hopelessly, and she looked at him with pity. It was better that she left. The monster was inside the walls with them, and he did not trust the dungeons or those who ran them.

It was more than a day before Domeric called for him. Theon knew from the way the pale eyes looked through him that his hopes of the previous night had been misguided. It was just as well. The mood had abandoned him.

"Kill him," he said immediately, "You should have done it already. If not for me, then for yourself. He would not hesitate to do the same to you." _Unless he had less pleasant plans,_ but he could not let himself think of that or he would find himself collapsed again.

Domeric's voice was distant. "I cannot. I have been given orders by my lord father."

"What orders? What could _possibly_ be worth keeping him alive?"

"My father has plans for him. There have been more... events of note in the south. My father has been declared Warden of the North, and Ramsay... is to claim Winterfell. He will be legitimized and wed to Ned Stark's youngest daughter. Father has instructed me to--"

Theon slammed his hands down on Domeric's desk. A tray of food rattled. "NO. She is only a child. You know what he is, you can't allow it, Dom... why Ramsay? Why not you?"

Domeric was looking to the side again, brows furrowed. "I fear I may have displeased father in some way. I am still heir to the Dreadfort, but he does not fully trust me with his schemes."

"Your letter to Robb..."

He nodded. "And my open search for the Stark boys. He has ordered that called off as well. I have done so. It may be for the best."

Theon slumped into a chair, powerless. "You still... can't you do something to stop it?"

"You mean kill him. Disregard my father's direct orders and make myself a kinslayer, cursed by man and gods."

"It's no worse than what your father has done, nor Ramsay. He will find a way to kill you if you let him out. He may find a way even if you don't." Theon's gaze drifted to the tray of food. It looked full. "Have you eaten any of that yet?" Not waiting for a response, he pulled it towards him. _He had the face of a dead thing, and foam in his mouth._ He bit off a piece of bread. It was almost cold, but the taste was good. Innocuous.

Domeric lifted his eyebrows. "If you're so hungry, I can have a tray brought for you." Theon winced as a chunk of stew meat stuck on one of his broken teeth. "Something you can chew more easily. You look like you haven't been eating properly again."

Theon took a sip of water, then seized the wine goblet. He gulped, put the glass down, then took it up again and drained it. "If I drop dead in the next few minutes, you'll know who is responsible, right? Please tell me you'll do something _then._ "

"My brother is locked in the dungeon, not the kitchens." Domeric said mildly, "You may be attributing to him powers he does not possess."

"He was locked in the dungeons of Winterfell, too. He has a way with fools. I should know. He gets into people's heads. And I do not trust your dungeon keepers." All of Ramsay's closest companions, the ones he had allowed to play with Theon, had fled with him and were now dead. But he might still have friends. "The Frey boys. Keep them out of the dungeons. Or better yet, lock them in their rooms."

"They're _eight_ , Theon. Though the dungeons are no place for children."

"It's not enough. There could be others, anyway. Keep your Barrowtown men close. I'll have to eat before you at every meal. I'll do it so everyone can see." Theon eyed a second plate suspiciously. "They can't be allowed to take you, too."

"So you really do care." Domeric said softly, causing Theon to drop a spiced fingerling potato. He looked at Domeric, really looked for the first time since that cursed letter arrived, and made himself see the dark circles and sallow skin, the uncombed hair and wrinkled tunic. "Sorry. I should leave it be."

"Dom..." _I need time._ "What do you think would happen to me if you died?" _No, no, wrong, look at his face, why am I such a damned fool?_ But the moment had passed. 

"Then I will follow these precautions, to make you feel safer." Domeric gave a bright, empty smile. "But I didn't call you here to discuss my assassination. Theon, tell me truly: would your uncle Euron give us Moat Cailin as ransom for your life?"

"For my head, maybe."

"Ah. A pity. That would have solved all our problems. Nonetheless, we must have the fortress."

Have it, and bring Arya Stark, horseface tomboy Arya who was Robb's littlest brat of a sister, up past the Neck and into hell. After all these horrors, did he have any tears left for her?

**************

The red stallion screamed with rage, hoofs beating against the stable walls. Domeric jumped back nimbly. He was no stranger to horses, even unruly ones but this beast had a cunning mind along with a vile temper, and it surely did hate him. _Not a good omen._ The apple he had offered had fallen to the inside of the stall, but the animal made no move toward it, eyeing Domeric with evil intent. He turned and left. It bothered him to have a horse for an enemy, but he had more other business to attend to, and no excuse to put it off further. Domeric called on a chill within himself, imagined icy armor around emptiness. Theon had made him irrational, but it had become easier of late to set aside his emotions. _I have no lover and no brother. I only want understanding of these intrigues I have become involved in against my will. See, father? No leeches necessary._

 _Now all of us are in the ground_ thought Domeric as he descended the stairs, accompanied by two of his men-at-arms from Barrowtown. He had seen the alcoves in the catacombs once, two little tombs for the brothers who came before him, brothers he would never know. _And I buried the third myself, and am come to join him. So much for the sons of Roose Bolton._ The dungeons were nicely quiet. The torturers must be short of criminals to work on. Domeric wished he could get rid of them, but that authority was not yet his. He eyed the gaolers, remembering Theon's words. One of them unlocked the door and held it open for him, and then shut it behind. The cell in which he stood was relatively spacious. There was no window. The inmate had been allowed candles, but none burned at the moment. The only light came from the torch which Domeric placed in a bone sconce on the wall. The room was divided by a set of bars with a second locked door inset. Behind them the prisoner sat on his bed, smiling at him. "My dear brother. I would embrace you, but..." He shrugged insouciantly, indicating the bars. "But if I must be locked away by my own kin, you might at least tell me what I am charged with."

 _Ramsay plays games._ "Rape, murder, and arson. As you know well."

"Serious crimes! And who accuses me? Am I to be allowed to face them?" The prospect was pleasing to him, to judge from the light in his eyes.

"Doubtful." Domeric studied him, wondering how much to say, but Ramsay's next words decided it.

"No? Is the word of a pack of peasant whores and a turncloak to be taken over the word of a legitimate son of Bolton?"

"And who told you you were a legitimate son of Bolton now?" 

Ramsay paused for an instant but did not seem perturbed. "You might get that out of me with a flaying knife, but that wouldn't be very brotherly. And you so want to be brotherly, don't you? We should have been friends, if only my birthright had been acknowledged when we were children. I would have liked a little brother. I might have been a... kinder... person, then."

 _Ramsay plays games, and he lies._ "That may be, but you are the person you are now. Keep your friends to yourself, then, I didn't come here for them. I want to know how much you know of Father's plans."

A shrug, sulky. "No more than you, I suspect. I am to marry the daughter of Ned Stark and inherit Winterfell and the title of Warden of the North instead of the Dreadfort, which you will hold."

"I know as much. I want to know more. I want to know the reasoning behind this arrangement. I can't help but feel a little... passed over." A little flattery, a little truth. _I can play games too, brother._ "And I think you may have some idea. You are father's trueborn son. In fact, of the two of us I suspect _you_ think more as he does."

It worked, he could tell before Ramsay even opened his mouth. "It may be I have some theories," he said smugly, "I've had little to do but sit and consider. But I'll want something in return."

"Name it." He would not release Ramsay until he absolutely had to, but anything short of that... Perhaps his brother had grown tired of darkness and boiled vegetables.

"Something to warm me in my solitude. I want you to tell me about our Reek."

"I have no reek. I bathe quite regularly."

This was a misstep, he knew instantly. He had no idea what hidden well those words had bubbled up out of nor how they managed to to slip past his emotional control. His brother's face only showed the bestial rage for a split second, not even long enough for Domeric to take a step back, but it had been there and could not be forgotten. The smile that replaced it was forced. "I'll rephrase myself, then. Tell me about that slut you have taken into your bed. Tell me what you make him do." He looked Domeric up and down with deliberate insolence. "With that pretty face, you probably don't even have to hold him down."

 _I trained my soul to feel nothing for years._ His fingers twitched. "I don't, in fact. He comes to me willingly every night. He cries my name when he climaxes, as he does every time." His voice sounded high and airy in his ears, as unnatural as his brother's smile. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

Ramsay had certainly heard something he liked. The strain seeped from his face, replaced with delight. "But you mustn't lie, brother. I always know. He's playing coy with you, and you're letting him. You haven't touched him in days. Weeks? The truth, now! It may be I know things that could help with that, too."

"...not since the Red Wedding..." Domeric admitted, slumping. His face tingled and behind it his head felt light, yet he still could not remember how to cry.

"Ah, there's the truth." Ramsay leaned back, satiated. "We can work together, if you're honest with me. Brothers should be able to trust each other. Tell me more. You let him run loose. What does he do?"

"He's terrified of you." _That pleases you, doesn't it?_ "He thinks you intend to poison me, and eats from my plate before I do."

Ramsay lifted his hand up, rubbing his mouth. "He thinks I have such power, does he? I would not care to be called a kinslayer, even if I weren't confined to this humble cell. And what a tender display of devotion, when he can't even stand the sight of you."

"Father's plans..."

"Oh, of course. I promised. Where to begin... Have you been listening to the news from King's Landing? My bride-to-be is scarce to be found. She was not to be seen at her own sister's wedding, nor on the occasion when that same sister treacherously poisoned our noble king. A skeptical mind might conclude that Arya Stark's sweet bones are to be found at the bottom of the Blackwater, or mouldering in some pauper's grave, not headed north wrapped in her own living flesh. What do you think of that?"

 _This may not have been a waste of time and pain after all._ "Then who..."

"Some dark-haired urchin trained to fib and please in a Fleabottom brothel, no doubt. It matters not, only that she is no Arya Stark."

"Even if that were true... why are _you_ being inflicted on the poor girl?"

"Your concern for a Fleabottom whore warms my heart, but is not likely to do her much good. While our claim on Winterfell rests on a false Arya, anyone who knew the real one can denounce the slut and us with her. The safest thing is if she dies birthing a little pale-eyed Stark heir within the year... and for her to die in childbed she must first get with child, and to do that, my dear brother, she must have a man. One who knows what to do with women."

Ice like the Wall inside him, holding ravening horrors at bay. Would his father do such a thing? _The Red Wedding._ He had to believe it possible. "Perhaps there is more to it. Perhaps he does not trust me to carry out such a scheme." If so, it might be the greatest compliment Roose Bolton had ever paid to his trueborn son. 

"It amounts to the same thing." Ramsay shrugged. "But our father does not have to have his way in everything. I have a different proposal: a partnership between brothers. There's no reason for us to be enemies. He couldn't move us around like pieces on a playing board if we stood together."

Against his will, Domeric's heart began beating faster. He resisted the urge to take a step closer. "Stood together how? What are you offering?"

"A simple deal. A whore for a whore, a castle for a castle. I have no interest in Winterfell, brother. It means nothing to me. Warden of the North? I don't care. I want the Dreadfort. It's all I've ever wanted, and Father means to give it to you." The plump lips curled upward. It was a smile. It could have passed for sad. "But he couldn't deny us if we both refused to obey. You take Winterfell. Take the wench, keep her safe if she means so much to you. I can get a dozen just like her if I have the urge." Ramsay stopped, realigned himself. "You don't approve, of course. But you would be Lord Paramount. You could stop me. I'd have to change my ways, with you looking over my shoulder, wouldn't I?"

"And you would accept that? Let me have power over you?" _Better than you having power over me._

He ran his hand along his cell wall, possessively, as if the rough stone were precious to him. "I can't rule from Winterfell, and from here. This castle is _mine._ It is mine by birthright. I am the eldest. And do you really want it? You seem ill-suited to this place. It's not a castle for a true knight. Winterfell was the home of Eddard Stark, noble Ned, who was raised in the Vale as you were. Take it, and rule as he would have ruled."

 _Our father killed Ned Stark's son and heir,_ he wanted to say, but what was the use? It could not be undone. Domeric did not know if he could rule with honor, in truth, but anyone would be better than Ramsay... if he meant what he said. The offer was too good, so good it seemed dangerous _not_ to take it. He nodded. "If you really are sincere..."

"Oh, I am! I am!"

"I'll be watching you. I'm not the same boy who rode up here all afire to meet his long-lost brother." He turned and reached for the torch.

"Still so suspicious? I thought we'd agreed there was no reason for us to be enemies." Ramsay's voice had gone back to sulky now. "Don't forget that I want my Reek."

The words halted him in his tracks. "What?"

"The first part of the bargain, remember? 'A whore for a whore, a castle for a castle.' You get the whore from Fleabottom, I get the one who called himself prince." 

"No." _Not him._ Then, disgracefully: _Find someone else._

"Please. Are you still lusting after my cast-off property, even when you've had no joy of it in months?"

"Stop." Domeric whirled around, wielding his torch like a sword.

"Why? You mean to take my bargain. I'm just trying to make things easy for you. The North won't care for the sight of you indulging that creature, so I'm taking him off your hands. Perhaps you don't know what he really is when you peel back those fine clothes and that pretty skin. I could tell you stories..."

 _I don't want to hear!_ he screamed inside but it must have been a lie, because he did nothing as Ramsay continued to speak...

*******************************************

Ser Gabrin found the Greyjoy boy at last on the castle wall, sitting like a morsel of meat between two toothy merlons and staring south. "I would speak with you," he said without preamble.

Greyjoy was just as blunt. "You should have killed him." 

Gabrin had to take the accusation in stride, as he had thought the same thing often enough since his "triumphant" return. The Bastard had been a difficult catch, having been hunted before. Gabrin had had to use bait. "His young Lordship wished to send his brother to the Wall. I didn't know his lord father had other plans. If I had, my quarry might have gone down fighting."

"To the Wall!" A bark of laughter. Gabrin noted the shaking hands, however. "No doubt he would have been useful enough, outfitting the brothers in cloaks of wildling skin. Until he got bored. Dom can be such a fool." A sideways glance. "You're his lackey from Barrowtown. Ser Gabby, isn't it?"

Once again, there was no arguing with his assessment. This man might yet be useful, though he seemed to be asking to get tossed off the parapet. "Ser _Gabrin_ , my lord. And you seem to have the Bastard's measure." A shudder went through Theon Greyjoy at that, though he didn't lose his smile. That was good. "Many don't. Some men might even be thinking they'd fare better under such as Ramsay Snow than a lord who won't stand for viciousness and treachery, though his blood is better. How many men did he have with him when he burnt Winterfell?"

"Six hundred." Greyjoy whispered. What little color he had drained from his face. Six hundred who had followed treasonous orders and might not care to be called to account for it, not to mention the gaolers who had enjoyed a prison full of women. "What do you want? Names? Faces? I had... other things on my mind at that time. All his close companions that I know of fled with him and died."

"Names are no use. Most of those men are loyal enough, I'm sure, and most of the ones that aren't are terrified of the father. It would only take one, though. No, not you. You're one of the few men I've found here I don't suspect of plotting murder." Gabrin looked down into puzzled eyes, darkly circled from lack of sleep, and quashed all pity. "I want something else from you. How do you feel about his lordship?"

"What? Wh-who?"

No one owed this man a break. "Young Domeric, who has made himself a fool for you before half of Westeros. I need to know if you love him."

Theon Greyjoy stared up at him, his sunken dark eyes pits of utter misery. Then--he was full of surprises, this one-- "I loved _Robb!_ "

Gabrin waited, outwardly patient. Inwardly, he was caught flat-footed and had no notion how to answer this confession. _You had a funny way of showing it, my lord_ did not seem the called-for response. Theon Greyjoy gathered himself enough to continue: "He never knew. I--I never told him. I'm a coward. I was afraid he--that I--he was _all I had._ I didn't dare try to change things, and I had lots of others, girls, ones I didn't care about so much, even Kyra, so it was easier. Then I--I saved his brother, and all he did was--" He paused, gathering himself, mercifully becoming more coherent. "I never killed the Stark boys, and I don't care if you believe me. Domeric believed me, and he wrote a letter to Robb. Maybe he read it. I don't know. But it was too late. I should have told him. I should have... done a lot of things differently. But I can't now. He's gone. The point, what you want to know, is..." _at last_ , thought Gabrin, "I don't know if I love Domeric, if I even can, only that I don't want to lose him. I've lost too much."

He raised his head, and looked at Ser Gabrin defiantly. The latter shook his head. "Enough. I expected professions of pure undying love. This is more convincing." He had observed Greyjoy's withdrawal following news of the Red Wedding, and the resulting heartbroken misery in Domeric. No one would risk alienating his only source of security unless his suffering put him beyond the capacity for rational thought. 

"Is it? What luxury, to be taken at my word."

"You've already proven yourself useful. He takes your advice--" _gods blast him, when he wouldn't take any from me_ "--and you keep him safe from poison, at least from fast poison. Whether you do that for your own sake or his, you're the best judge. But it won't be enough, not forever. Not when our new-minted Warden of the North seems bent on setting his two sons against each other. No, the problem needs to be cut off at the source."

"You mean to kill him!" Theon Greyjoy's voice was hushed, but he sat up straighter and fresh color came flooding back into his cheeks. "You can't mean for me to do it. I--I can't. When I saw him ride through that gate I couldn't move. He could have done anything to me. But if... I'll help you if I can. Any... anything."

The knight smiled ruefully. _We'll see, young lord, if you still feel that way after hearing what I have in mind._

***********************

" _Domeric!_ " Theon flung the door open without knocking first. It was unlocked, which was troubling, but he could deal with that later. Right now, his eyes were on the loaf of bread which Domeric had dropped in surprise and was now trying to push under his chair with a foot. "I knew it. Either you've been starving yourself for the past week, or you've been sneaking food. How many people know you're eating without me?"

Domeric abandoned his attempts at concealment, slumping back. "I should be able to eat when I want, in my own father's castle." The words were spoken spiritless, an imitation of defiance. Theon's sense of alarm kicked up a notch. Domeric had been different these past few days. It wasn't just that he hadn't called for Theon to taste his food. He hadn't been to visit the stables, Ser Gabrin had told Theon, nor had the sounds of the harp been heard from his room, both of which were normally everyday occurrences. He allowed others to make the preparations to ride south, taking no hand even when it came to the horses. Worst of all, he had been to the dungeons, and now he would not meet Theon's gaze. 

"All right. Fine. You can't stand the sight of me. Then find another taster."

"He's not going to poison me."

"It's true, then. You've been to see him. After I told you he was full of lies, that there was nothing he could tell you that--" Theon had been reaching for him in frustration, wanting to make the fool _look_ at him, but Domeric evaded him, swaying to his feet with a startling fluidity. He retreated to a side table with an open bottle of wine, which he used to fill a large glass which he carried over to the window. From the way he moved, and the deliberate way he enunciated his words, it was not his first. " _What did he say to you?_ " Theon cursed himself for a fool. He had cut himself off from Domeric, wasted a month of his life sulking in his room, and for what? Domeric needed him now, needed him and didn't trust him. He had spoken to Ramsay, and now his eyes were dead and empty. _I was worried about the wrong kind of poison._ Robb wouldn't have wanted this. Robb always did what he thought was right, even when it hurt. Theon took a deep breath.

"I'm... sorry. I abandoned you over something that wasn't your fault. I've been--" He heard a sound which he thought for a heart-stopping moment was a cough, but when it continued he realized was a sort of agonized laughter.

"Oh, Theon. You don't have to. Not to me, not ever." When he turned around, Theon saw that there were actual tears in his eyes. He could not remember ever seeing Domeric cry before.

"Gods, Dom, then why have you been avoiding me?"

Domeric did not respond immediately, staring at him through glazed watery eyes, swaying slightly. Then he reached out with one hand to cup Theon's face. "You're very strong. I wish... I'm not. And I never know what's right. Wish I did..."

Theon had to laugh at that. "And you think I do? Have you been paying attention to my life story at all?"

"But you do!" insisted Domeric. "You always know what's right, even though you don't do it. You could. It would be easy for you. _Not_ me. I have bad blood like the rest of my family. _You_ know." He giggled. "Probably even those little babies in the crypts. Maybe should get the leeches? Like father says."

"You'd make the leeches drunk." Theon took the empty goblet from Domeric's unresisting fingers. "We depart early tomorrow. You need to sleep it off." They needed to talk soberly, too. Not about Ser Gabrin's plans--better for Domeric if he didn't know about those--but he had to be made to pull himself together, for all their sakes.

"Theon..." Domeric leaned against his shoulder. "Tell me what's the right thing to do. I don't know. I can't do it, 'less I know."

"You do know. I've told you. Don't let Ramsay marry Arya Stark. Don't let him have Winterfell." He doubted anything he said now would be remembered, though.

"Not the problem." Domeric giggled again as Theon put his arm around him, leading him to the bed. "Tell me what's right. Your blood against your friends. You know. If anyone."

That question. Theon did know. He'd spent hundreds of hours in the dark thinking of nothing else. He sat with Domeric on the edge of the bed, the other man still leaning against him, solid and warm. "My father betrayed me. I know that now. He would have invaded even if I hadn't returned. He would have made Robb kill me. I just... wanted my father to be proud of me. But it was never going to happen. I was fooling myself." It was surprisingly easy to say, perhaps because Dom was half out of his senses. "I swore an oath to Robb. I thought about keeping it. I should have. I don't know if I could have gotten away, gotten a warning out. I might have been locked up by my own family, like you and your aunt. It would have been better, even so." His left hand went up to stroke Domeric's black hair. He whispered: "So many dead. What did I think was going to happen? That reaving and raping wasn't going to mean reaving and raping? I thought Winterfell would be different, I could control it somehow. If I were a prince. I should have stayed away, should have never gone to the mill, should have fucking killed Ramsay..." 

He trailed off, noticing the drool that was soaking through his shirt. Domeric was fast asleep, and probably had been for the entire confession. Theon sighed, smiling despite himself. He gently lowered the slumberer onto his side, pulling his boots off and tucking his feet under the covers. He looked at the unguarded face. Whatever had been distressing Domeric's waking thoughts had been banished for the moment, but the bags were still there under his eyes. Looking at them by the light of the slanting afternoon sun, Theon felt his own lack of sleep hit him hard. He thought of his own bed. It seemed impossibly far away, and cold. _Just for a moment,_ he thought, _just a nap, and I'll be gone before he wakes._ He circled to the other side of the bed and slid his own boots off, curling up under a fur blanket. He was not touching Domeric, but listening to the sound of his steady breathing.

Then, nothing.

*************

Theon watched everyone on the road. He watched the men watching him, he watched the men watching Domeric, and most of all he watched Ramsay, though the sight of the man made him tremble. He was unfettered now, and running loose. He would not ride south in chains to meet his bride. Others were watching Ramsay, too. There were always one or two of Ser Gabrin's men lurking around, which was something at least. Theon had his own guards, but he didn't mind so much, since they also meant protection. Ramsay had made no attempt to molest him so far, though the looks he gave Theon made him feel like drying up and blowing away in the wind. Of more concern was his interactions with the other men. Ramsay was not pleasant to look upon, but he could be ingratiating when he chose. He had turned his oily affability up to full on this trip, and consequently enjoyed a new popularity among the soldiers. Domeric possessed a sincere, if somewhat detached charm of his own which he should have been deploying in opposition, but Domeric was not himself at the moment.

Theon had woken in his bed the morning of their departure, embarrassed and confounded to find that he had slept through the night and that Domeric had woken before him, dressed, and left him sleeping. He had not mentioned the incident since, either to remonstrate or to invite him to share a tent on the way south. This was for the best, Theon knew. It would make things easier. Nonetheless, he wished the man would show some signs of life. He issued only the most perfunctory orders (Gabrin had to pick up the slack, lest Ramsay step in) and when he did speak it was with a dull, monotonous tone. His air of resignation was not even relieved by day, when he rode Reckless Moon at the head of the column. Theon rode with him, and saw him at mealtimes, but all of his inquiries were evaded with that polite, empty smile. He thought at times about laying hold of a wineskin and visiting Domeric in his tent, to see if drink might loosen his tongue once more, but he didn't dare. They needed their wits about them.

They had meant to wait until they were almost to the Kingsroad before making a move. The shorter the distance he would have to run to Torrhen's Square, the closest Ironborn stronghold, the better. "It's not for your sake," Gabrin had told him when Theon had looked at him askance, "You think I'm going to want you captured and interrogated?"

"Do you think I'd allow myself to be captured again, as long as I have a knife on me?" Theon had responded. "No one would believe me anyway. Some knight you are, to plot a thing like this." But knights were sworn to protect the innocent. Theon was no innocent, but there was Domeric, and Arya, and who knew how many others. The Bastard had to die.

It was on the tenth day of their march as he sat watching Ramsay, now bedecked in a red doublet and pink cloak to match Domeric's, that he realized that Gabrin's timetable was too risky. There was a coterie of Dreadfort men around Ramsay's fire, talking with him and laughing at his japes. _We should have been more careful._ Theon thought with a chill. He thought he recognized some of the men who had been there for the burning of Winterfell. One of them in particular, a tall man with thin sandy hair and a missing ear, had been riding close to Theon and Domeric for the past few days. When he came face to face with Theon, as he often did when they camped, he smiled and nodded politely instead of scowling, which made him practically unique. Now he tilted his head back and gave a raucous laugh at some vile story Ramsay had been telling. Not enough attention had been paid when selecting the men to ride south. _Domeric_ had not paid enough attention. That fool had never learned to care if people didn't like him. _It must have come from too much easy popularity,_ Theon thought sourly. _The only legitimate son, and if one person didn't care for him, he could always play a pretty tune on his harp and a dozen more would fall into his arms. He's never had to worry about making friends, and now that he really needs them, he's can't be bothered, the spoiled little jackass._

(but he cared enough for my friendship, he tried so hard, once...)

Theon had to shove that thought out of his mind. Domeric was emerging from his tent. Ramsay saw him, smiled, excused himself to approach his brother, wrapping him in a rough bear hug. Theon stiffened. _No, let go, keep your hands off him, Bastard_ but the smaller man stood there passively for a few moments before pulling away. Ramsay clapped a hand on one shoulder _don't let him why are you letting him touch you_ and leaned in to say something too soft for Theon to hear. Domeric smiled and it was almost the same polite empty smile but Theon had seen that smile too often lately and he could detect the undercurrent of pain in it now. _What are you doing to him, Bastard? What did you say to him in that filthy fucking dungeon to make him disregard every warning I've ever given?_ Someone had to put a stop to it. Theon looked frantically around, meeting the eyes of one of his Barrowtown guards. He jerked his head in the direction of the brothers, but the lackwit only stared blankly at him. Gabrin himself was nowhere to be found. 

Theon realized that there was no one but himself. Swallowing the bile in the back of his throat, he got shakily to his feet. He was useless, gods, so useless, and weak. He wanted to run in the other direction and not look back. He took a step forward, not sure what he meant to do. But Ramsay had seen him now, and the look in his eyes stopped Theon in his tracks, as he should have known it would. The Bastard smiled hungrily, and spoke once more to Domeric, who looked over and saw him. A new expression flashed across his face, but it was gone before Theon could interpret it. He shook off his brother's hand, said "Not now," in a voice loud enough to hear, and marched off to where the horses were tethered. Theon followed quickly, only looking back to make sure that his idiot of a guard was following and not staring slack-jawed into the fire.

"Dom," he said softly as he approached. Domeric whirled around, almost startling his horse, but relaxed when he realized who it was.

"Theon," he said, empty smile in place as he placed a soothing hand on Reckless Moon's neck. "What a nice night it--"

"Don't give me that. Don't give me any more bullshit. I want to know what he said to you to make you like this. Drowned God take you, I warned you, Domeric! Tell me what he's been saying to you, so we can figure out what he's planning and put a stop to it. We'll do it together." He swallowed, hard. " _Please!_ "

Domeric's impassive face faltered a little, and he spoke hesitatingly. "Theon, I... he told me..."

"Do m'lords need any help?" The guard, who should certainly have been strangled at birth by any conscientious mother, was standing there, gazing suspiciously at him.

" _Fuck off!_ " Theon snarled. No doubt the man had seen the look in his master's eyes and thought a rescue was called for, but Theon was worn ragged by stress and could have murdered him at that moment.

"We don't need any assistance. You can go about your business now." came the smooth voice from behind him. Theon turned back around to find Domeric's impassive mask back in place, no trace of the grief and despair he'd glimpsed there a moment before. To Theon he said: "It isn't anything you have to worry about. Ramsay is my brother and mine to deal with. Please go now."

Theon stared at him for a moment, trying to think of something to say to crack that wall once more. But he felt that infernal guard waiting behind him, and knew this chance was lost.

It was hard to speak to Gabrin on the road. Too many eyes were watching during the march, and Ramsay must suspect nothing. But when they made camp the following evening, he was able to approach the knight as he supervised the raising of a tent. "We have to move now." Theon told him quietly. Gabrin nodded. The man must have noticed the same things as Theon.

"Tomorrow," he said simply, then gave Theon's arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. Theon looked after him in surprise. Much depended on him, of course, but a part of him still suspected that the knight meant to dispose of him when it was done. It was worth it for the chance to be free of Ramsay, he reasoned. He could not take this living in fear forever.

That night, he did not sleep much, but he made himself eat, even finishing Domeric's breakfast for him. That actually earned him a raised eyebrow, but no comment. The day seemed to drag on forever, the sky low and gray with clouds, even the men subdued (or was that his imagination?) When at last a camp was chosen in the late afternoon, however, the clouds had broken up revealing a deep late autumn sky. A full moon tonight, Theon remembered. That was a piece of luck. He could make good time under a full moon, if Ser Gabrin kept his word.

Theon took a seat at the western edge of camp with his meal. He had a different guard tonight, a man whose sharp red beard made him look like a fox. Fox-face looked him in the eye and nodded as he took a seat at the fire beside Theon. Now to wait, as afternoon turned into evening, until Ramsay was settled in enough to remove his armor. Theon ate quickly. He could not see the whole camp and did not know when his moment would come. He watched the men around him instead. He glimpsed the man with the missing ear at the next fire, then made himself look away. It should be enough.

A roar from the other side of camp. "Hand it back over, you filthy thief! I've been saving that for a special occasion!" Further noises ensued. Without so much as a glance at Theon, Fox-face cursed, stood, and strode in the direction of of the commotion. Theon waited a few seconds, then got to his own feet, surreptitiously looking around. No one paid him any heed. _No, wait._ There was Earless, giving him a quick glance then looking away. _Yes._

Theon moved. Toward the setting sun, no looking back, trying not to think of thousands of things that could go wrong. Would Earless inform Ramsay? What if he raised the alarm himself? What if he followed? Theon tried to remember if the man had still been wearing his sword. He himself only had his dagger. He encountered no sentries, as promised. The road was towards his right, could he find it again? There was meant to be a man with a spare horse, sent ahead on the road. Theon tried to think of that. He tried not to think of Ramsay, who should be coming after him. The hounds were still at the Dreadfort, he reminded himself. He could not be hearing them now.

He did hear something, though. _Hoofbeats._ That was all right, that had been planned for. He knew he would be caught. That was the _plan._ He hadn't been covering his tracks, concentrating on making distance. Would that make him suspicious? _He will not kill me, though. Not right away. That is not why he hunts._ He knew, suddenly in the pit of his soul, that there would be no Gabrin, no plot, no trap, unless it was the one closing around him now. Theon stumbled, forced himself to go on. His boots corrected for his missing toes somewhat, but the stumps had started to ache ferociously. Whatever the truth, he must keep moving.

He heard a _snap_ , somewhere off to his right. His head turned sharply and there was Gabrin, behind a large rock, his foot very deliberately placed on a broken twig. He raised a hand to his lips, then palm out to keep Theon still. He wasn't wearing armor, which was necessary, but made Theon nervous. He wondered where the others were hidden, how many the wily knight had chosen to trust with this conspiracy. He was standing before an old riverbed, smaller rocks scattered here and there. There was not much concealment to be found among the bare trees, but the last rays of the sun had disappeared and all that was left was the twilight sky.

The hoofbeats slowed, stopped. Ramsay was not trying to be quiet as he moved, and when he ceased the world turned silent. Theon turned around slowly. It would all be over soon, he told himself, one way or the other. The Bastard wore his pink cloak, the hood turned up. He did not speak as he rode closer. _Something is wrong._ Theon stepped back. He should have been taunting and sneering. He tried to look into the darkness under the hood, but the fading light showed him nothing. And something about the horse... it was so hard to see now. It seemed to be the right color, but... He remembered something from a lifetime ago, something about the first Reek.

"You're not--" He cried, loudly for whoever was hiding, but it was too late. The arrow flew from somewhere to Theon's right and lodged itself in the rider's chest, and the world erupted in sound. The rider bellowed, pulled the arrow from his clothes, and charged off in the direction of the archer, his horse--not Blood, he saw now, similar though not identical in pattern--screaming in rage. _What impossibility did Ramsay promise to that fool?_ he though irrelevantly as he dove to the side. But whoever the fool was, he had been wearing chain mail under his shirt. There were more hoofbeats now, riders approaching from the direction of the last, at least two by Theon's count. Ramsay would not be caught so easily. They should have known. He dropped his hand to the dagger at his side. The hilt felt solid and comforting. _He will not take me alive._

There were shouts coming from where the archer had been hidden, but he couldn't worry about that now. Unarmored, armed with a dagger, he would be easy meat in any fight, and worse than useless in this one. He lunged for the rock behind which he had seen the knight--perhaps he had brought an extra weapon--but his maimed foot twisted on a rock and he dropped to his hands and knees. The riders were upon him before he could regain his feet. He heard two run past, but the third wheeled around in front of Theon. He felt the bile rise in his throat. Don't look up, just get away--

"Such treachery, Reek." At the sound of that voice, he was paralyzed. Two boots thumped to the ground in front of him. He tried to shake himself into action, but too late. A leather-gloved hand closed around his throat, forcing him to look up into Ramsay Bolton's unmistakably mad ice eyes. More productive instincts kicked back in, and he grabbed at the arm holding him. Ramsay, of course, was wearing no mail--clever, clever, that would have been noticed, he knew of the watchers of course. What had they been thinking? Ramsay set traps, he didn't fall into them. 

It was as if his mind had been read. "I let myself get careless when I heard how father meant to elevate me. I thought it might be worth the risk to have another go at that wench of yours, but I think it's better this way. Don't you?" The hand around his throat squeezed. The panic Theon felt as his world dimmed was a remarkably effective motivator. The dagger was in his fist and slashing wildly, and though he was weak and his aim was not good, he did open a cut across Ramsay's right bicep. "Reek!" The blade was plucked from his fingers as though from a misbehaving child. There may have been a distant thud as it was flung away, but he could not be sure from the ringing of swords and the ringing in his ears. "You know what I'll take for this. No weapons for you, Reek!" he heard hissed into his ear before he was released and shoved away. Even if he might have regained his wits, he had no time, for the open-handed slap cracked across his face and the twilight faded to black.

Theon could not have been out long. He spat blood and half-rotted leaves out of his mouth, turning towards the skirmish. There were bodies on the ground now, three that he could see. He could not see if one of them had a missing ear. Three more were standing. Ramsay and the first rider, the one with the chain mail undershirt, were circling Ser Gabrin. Bolton and his lackey were easy to see; they both wore bright pink. It would be over soon. Gabrin did not look injured, but neither did his two opponents. There was no escape for Theon. Something in his brain must have been shaken loose by the slap, or starved by lack of blood, or simply burnt out by too long living in fear. _There is no escape, but I can make him kill me._

"Snow, Snow." He pushed his hands against the ground, shoving it away as if it were an attacker. His maimed foot had stopped hurting at some point, which he found encouraging. Perhaps it meant there was no more point to pain. "It rhymes with... oh, so many things." It didn't rhyme with anything witty, not that he could think of right now, but that didn't matter, because Ramsay had turned away from his fight and was staring at Theon with some combination of astonishment and transcendent rage. "Oh, yes. _Foe._ " The knight had noted Ramsay's distraction, but the armored man had moved between the two. Ramsay took a step forward. Theon made a rude gesture, feeling lightheaded. _One blow, and he'll have me dead._ "How about _slow_?" Gabrin's opponent was that, or possibly he was drunk, but in any case he was taken by a slash across his unarmored throat.

Ramsay whirled back, the spell broken. Gabrin raised his newly-bloodied sword, and he may have been quick for his age but he was not so strong and he did not expect the ruthlessness as the Bastard seized his dying lackey before he could buckle and, holding him up as a shield, smashed downward with his own blade through all the knight's defenses and most of his right bicep, halted only when sword met bone.

Gabrin screamed.

So did Theon.

So did Domeric.

" _Stop!_ " Theon whirled around. They'd all been too distracted to hear the sound of the hoofbeats, or see the torch flickering through the bare trees. Domeric slowed as he rode past Theon, but he had eyes only for his wayward brother. "What is this butchery? Did you all come out here to murder each other?" The torchlight illuminated his face, blazing with anger (finally, some emotion) as he drew up next to his stricken man and dismounted in a single smooth movement. He bent over the knight, turning all his attention to the wound.

"Domeric!" He should not be turning his back on the Bastard, but both of them ignored him.

"I want that fat old rogue's skin. He intended to ambush and murder me. Everything you see is the fruit of all his plotting."

"Flaying was outlawed by Ned Stark. Anyway, he must be healed before he can be judged." Gabrin groaned. Theon could sympathize.

"If you're not Bolton enough to do it yourself, hand me the knife. By all my hounds, you should have been the bastard and I the trueborn." 

"No. He's not mine to give you." Domeric did draw his knife, but he began using it to cut strips from his cloak. Ramsay stood for a moment, then turned on Theon.

"Are you concerned for my brother, Reek? What a suspicious wretch you are. It must come from being so faithless yourself. I have no reason to turn on my own kin, for we've come to an agreement." The torch was planted in the ground, and its flickering light limned Ramsay's large frame while hiding his face. His voice betrayed his excitement, though. "I tried to beat the disloyalty out of you, don't you remember? It seems I must start again from scratch. How tedious."

"Let him be." Theon could no longer see Domeric, obscured behind the looming figure of his elder sibling. There was a cry of pain from the wounded man. He tried to step to the side to see, to look at anything but Ramsay; but Ramsay moved with him.

"Why should I? He'll be a problem unless you let me get him under control. Anyway..." the dark form paused as if to savor a sense of anticipation, "You promised."

There was a reply to that, too incoherent for Theon to make sense of. It felt like a giant fist had gripped his heart. _He couldn't have..._

"Oh yes. It turns out dear Domeric would rather have a brother than a whore. Can you blame him? Look at yourself." Ramsay was sauntering towards him now, in no hurry. "Not as pretty as you once were. And the things you've done, Reek... I had so many stories to tell him, but I don't think he cared for them, the poor boy."

"Ramsay..."

"So I agreed to take you off his hands. Oh, he was resistant at first. I think he planned to trade your head to the Crow's-Eye in exchange for that disease infested mudhole of a castle. But I have better uses for you." His form was close enough now to blot out the world, all dark except for the eyes, pale blobs with vast dilated voids at the center. "You should thank me, Reek, and you will, after a while. After all, I know your true _name._ How many people would touch you, do you think, if they knew who you truly were?"

"Ramsay!"

"You have sharp lessons to learn. It will be hard on the road, of course, but we won't be on the road forever. It may be a challenge, in fact. I'd--"

" _Ramsay!_ "

"What?!" Ramsay Bolton spun towards his brother, then jerked, grunting. The cloak hanging down his back rippled strangely, but Theon did not understand what had happened until Domeric spoke again.

"I'm sorry," Domeric apologized. "I didn't want to stab you in the back. That would have been too much, wouldn't it? It's bad enough to be a kinslayer as it is."

Ramsay gurgled, taking a step forward, but Domeric stood rooted to the spot. "You shouldn't have told me all those things. I wouldn't have been able to do it otherwise. I don't... I don't quite understand why you wanted to." Meaty, bloodstained hands reached out for him, but then Theon was there, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him back an instant before they closed around his throat. He continued, a quaver in his voice that had never been there before. "You couldn't help yourself, I think. You weren't going to stop, ever, no matter what anyone did. I, I wanted a brother so..." 

There was blood on Ramsay's bared teeth, shining in the orange torchlight. It seemed familiar, like an image glimpsed in a dream. Ramsay took another step, then fell to his knees. He looked up at Theon and Domeric with no fear in his face, only baffled rage, as though he could not comprehend whatever chain of events had brought him to this. His hands reached to his chest, to grasp the hilt of the sword, and then he fell back into darkness.

"I'm so, so sorry." whispered Domeric. "I didn't want to."

Theon stood beside him for several minutes, staring at the fallen Ramsay, waiting for it to feel _real_ after the past hour's catastrophic shifts in fortune. Then he pulled Domeric back, away from the corpse, towards the light of the torch. He could feel the other man shaking. "It's all right."

Domeric turned towards him. His face and neck were smeared with bloody fingerprints where the Bastard had tried to seize him. That would not do. Theon had no waterskin, so he had to spit on his sleeve. "It's not, though." Domeric insisted. The moon was starting to show through the trees. He could see the bright slivers reflected in Domeric's wide, defenseless eyes. "A kinslayer is the worst thing you can be."

"Ha. No, it isn't. You can take my word on that." He scrubbed at Domeric's face, realized he was crying from the shiny silver tracks of tears. He'd never cried before, not where Theon could see. It was good, though. It made Ramsay's blood come up more easily.

"I had to do it, didn't I? I've known that for a while now. I couldn't let him have you. I couldn't let him. Because I listened to the things he told me about you. Was that wrong? I know you tried to hide it, everything he did." Theon must have wavered, if just for a moment. "It was... I'm sorry."

"Never mind it, Dom." he said gently, examining the unresisting face. He suspected it was as clean as it was going to get right now. "You should wash your face before sunrise."

Domeric didn't seem to have heard him. "It must be my bad blood. Why I try to do right and can only do wrong."

"Forget that horseshit. You don't have bad blood." Theon floated over towards the freshly dead. Tomorrow night, and the night after, and for countless nights and days to come, he would be haunted by terrors and nightmares but now, on this night, in this moment, with Domeric and the quickly cooling corpse of Domeric's brother, he felt no fear whatsoever. He looked down in wonder at Ramsay Snow's slack, empty face. _Meat. You're only meat, now._ he thought as he placed his foot on the motionless torso and gripped the jutting hilt. Grunting with effort, he yanked out the blade. "You didn't do wrong."

"The kinslayer is cursed by the gods, and by man. I've killed my brother." A sob. "He was all I ever wanted, once."

"Brothers aren't so great to have. Anyway, Theon Turncloak killed yours." Theon cleaned the weapon on his own cloak and looked for a scabbard. There were too many bodies here. He wondered if there were any more survivors.

"Turncloak? But..." Domeric's brain finally seemed to start working again. "You don't have to..."

"Domeric. It would be an _honor_ to tell the whole North and anyone else who asks that I killed Ramsay Snow." He found a matching scabbard on a dead man, and buckled it around his waist. It had been the plan, after all.

"Will you tell them you stole my horse as well?"

Theon looked at him in shock. "Reckless Moon? You're _giving_ him to me? I have..." He remembered the promised scout with the spare horse. Would the man still be there? Did he dare take that chance?

"There are other horses."

Theon strode back over to Domeric, taking his face in both hands. He was not wearing any kind of mask now, of stoicism or of blood. The expression of dazed horror had receded, and his eyes were only sad and trusting, and it hurt to look into them. Now, at the end with freedom so close, all he wanted to do was pull him close hold him until the loneliness was all soothed away. He had no home to ride to, only Torrhen's Square, with its conquered inhabitants and jeering Ironborn and a dubious welcome from his once-mentor Dagmer Cleftjaw. Home was where you had someone who loved you and wanted to protect you... but Domeric's ability to protect him any further was an illusion, and if Theon wanted to protect Domeric he had to leave and take his cargo of precious lies with him. He tried to tell himself that he did not deserve a home anyway, but somehow this failed to make it easier. _Come with me. You can be my hostage for a while, among the Ironborn,_ he almost asked, but choked it back. He might agree but he wouldn't, couldn't understand what he was agreeing to. So he only said:

"I'll take good care of him. I know what he means to you." He made himself let go. "I can't stay any longer. I need to ride fast, and you need to see to your wounded. Domeric... take care of yourself."

"And... and you. Think of me sometime when you rule the Iron Islands."

He turned and seized the reins of the white stallion, blinking rapidly. The full moon accompanied him away, but they could not move so very fast through the trees. He looked back, and saw the warm light of Domeric's torch dancing behind screens of underbrush. A second look back, and there was too much forest between.

Theon rode on, into cold moonlight and an uncertain future.


	2. Chapter 2

The sand gritted against the stumps of his toes, but Theon did not regret taking off his boots. They were starting to wear out anyway. 

He let the cold waves wash over his feet, savoring the momentary sensation of peace. It was good to be alone for a while. He did not know how much time he had left with his mother, but even so, he still had to escape every so often. The others did not mean to hurt him with their japes, he knew, but they weren't helping either. "Aren't you getting tired of playing nursemaid, Greyjoy? Go back to Pyke once in a while, your sister could use a man around." But he did not care to return to Pyke, and Asha did not need his help to rule, as he suspected everyone knew. He would see her the next time she visited the Ten Towers. Until then, all he wanted was to live as quietly as possible for as long as possible. He'd done his part, hadn't he?

He still had nightmares, of Ramsay, of Euron, of the things that Euron had called up from the deep. But those weren't so bad, because when he awoke from them he knew that they were over, whatever scars might be left behind. Worse by far was when Robb Stark appeared in his dreams; Robb learning of his betrayal, Robb dying believing him a kinslayer, even young and happy Robb was an agony on awakening. There was no going back to sleep after those, so on bright nights he would take his white horse and ride along the shore until dawn.

As he was doing now.

 _I don't deserve peace, but that doesn't stop me from wanting it._ He grinned at the thought, showing off his gold-capped teeth to the waves. _But I'm needed, so I have a reason to stay here. To stay alive._

He'd been afraid Alannys Greyjoy wouldn't recognize him after he had grown and changed so much, but she'd shocked him herself. He remembered, vaguely, a strong, tall, black haired woman. She looked like a ghost now, white haired and so thin he could recognize the shape of her emaciated face by its resemblance to the one he had seen in the mirror, once. She had known him, though. "My baby," She'd murmured as he knelt beside her bed. She ran her hand along one of the white streaks in his hair. "So distinguished... how long has it been?" He'd wept then, because it had been too long, and at the same time not long enough to justify the changes to both of them.

She'd known him well. She had been able to read his terrible trials in his eyes, and in his missing ring finger, which he could not explain away as an injury from the finger dance.

"Did the greenlanders do this to you? My baby, why did I let them take you away?"

"Yes, but it... it wasn't the Starks. It was the Bastard, the Bastard of Bolton. After I lost Winterfell."

He had been surprised at the ferocity in her voice. "I hope you made him pay, my son. Your hand, your poor teeth. I hope you took your revenge."

"He won't hurt anyone ever again." It was not quite a lie. He had been telling men from here to Torrhen's Square that he had killed Ramsay Bolton, and he had enjoyed doing so for the most part, but for some reason it tasted too bitter to tell that story here. Like with Asha, when she had found him after Stannis released her. He had told her so much, had wanted to tell her the truth about that too, but hadn't dared. Asha suspected something, he knew, but she had not pressed him. His mother on the other hand had seemed satisfied, pleased even, so he knew he had said the right thing whatever he might feel.

It was the unspoken agreement that he would remain here at Ten Towers for as long as he was needed, while Asha sailed around the Iron Islands making her presence seen and felt. It suited him. It was something he _could_ do, and if it was painful, that was the price he paid for leaving things so late.

And painful it was. When he had first returned, her frail body had been invigorated. She could walk quite a ways, and wandered over the castle, leaning on his arm. (He had regained much of his strength since his time in the dungeons of the Dreadfort, and she was quite light.) She wanted to show him the places she had seen him as a child. "Your sister taught you how to row in that bay. And this bridge! I caught your uncle carrying you across it on his shoulders. He was stinking drunk and singing. What a tongue lashing I gave him! Was it that which drove him to become a priest? I can't remember. Ask him for me when you see him."

It was not in Theon's power to ask anything of his uncle Aeron, but it might have distressed her to say so. He enjoyed these outings generally, but even happy memories could be dangerous places. "I saw your brothers practicing in that yard. Such strong boys! You were too small for them to play with." He had met worse than Rodrik and Maron, but that did not mean he liked to hear of them. He remembered a pair of placid pale eyes, and tried to imitate that calm.

Of late, she had become less active, preferring to stay indoors and gaze out of the window. It was clearly tiring her to more and more to move, and watching this decline was a fresh sort of grief, not something that could be buried in the past but an inevitable horror of the future. She must have rest, so he was left to himself more, which tore at him while somehow also bringing relief. He dined with the men now, yet rode more often, which set him apart. His mother was too tired to tell him about himself, so he told her. He explained how it was in Winterfell, about Ned Stark's coolness and Robb's warmth. He told her over and over about his finest moment, the glory of the Whispering Woods. He even told her (because she would not let him go otherwise) about the capture of Winterfell. She wept when he told her how he lost it, but thank the gods, she did not ask again to hear what happened after.

She brushed his hair as if he were a child. He did not complain when it pulled.

"You've added months to her life." His uncle Rodrik had told him. Perhaps it was true, and she had lived long enough to see her husband avenged and her daughter crowned because she had seen her son again. But if it were, how much might she have benefited from the sight of the smiling youth he had been before sailing forth to conquest and ruin? And so, Theon had returned after it was all over. There was nowhere else he could be useful.

He thought about his place in the world as he watched the sky lightening to the palest blue in the east. Asha would find a use for him if he asked her. What did he want? Could he become a captain when he had spent so long away from the sea, command men when he had been such a disaster the first time? The continued existence of a male heir, however poorly qualified, must be a trouble for her, though the gods knew he had no desire to take the throne himself.

It was time to go back. Theon wiped his feet off as best he could and put his boots back on. _And how am I going to replace these?_ Most of the cobblers who made such items lived in the North, where men lost toes to frostbite. He pushed that thought aside as he mounted the horse. It was not his horse, but he had taken care of it as best he could.

A sail caught his attention as he rode past the harbor. It couldn't be, not so soon... but it was his sister's ship and he was changing direction, riding down to meet her.

"Up early, aren't you, little brother?" Asha called to meet him as she strutted down the gangplank. "How is Mother?"

"She's no worse, if that's what you heard. She'll be happy to see you."

Asha looked up at him, resting her hand on the side of the white horse's neck. "I will, but that's not the only reason I've come. A raven arrived in Pyke, and a letter with your name on it."

"Who... is it from Winterfell?" He owed Queen Sansa a great deal, but could not think of anything she might want from him. That was not the only possibility, though. A strange cocktail of emotions started to bubble through him.

"Black sealing wax with no sigil. You have a secret admirer, brother." She shrugged, grinning. "Don't worry. Would I open your mail? Come up to the library and I'll hand it over."

****************

The hand that had written "Theon" on the outside of the letter was only vaguely familiar. Theon did not spend his time studying it, but sliced open the seal. A second paper, older and darker, fell out of the first, fluttering to the ground. 

"There's nothing on this one." Theon said. _Only my name._ He folded it up and tucked it into his shirt. They stared at the second paper lying on the ground.

"I can go, if you want." Asha offered. She'd been leaning against a table covered with books, but she straightened.

Theon shook his head, not wanting to be alone with this, whatever it was. He bent down to pick up the missive in a trembling hand. It looked as if it had been handled and read many times. As he unrolled it, the trembling got worse and his eyes blurred until he could no longer make out the words. _This_ writing, he recognized.

"Theon?" Asha's voice, concerned, sounded far away. "Theon, what is it? Who's it from?"

"Robb Stark," he sobbed, clutching at the letter, afraid to drop it, afraid to crush it. " _It's a letter from Robb._ "

**************

Asha set the full mug down in front of him carefully, so no ale spilled out on the letter as it lay out before him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Theon finished reading for what seemed the hundredth time. "I waited for this letter. You... you don't know what I risked to wait for this letter."

"And was it worth the wait?"

He took a gulp from the mug, then read aloud: 

"I should be cursing you for playing with my hopes, but instead I choose to bless you for banishing my fears. Something has always told me my brothers still lived, though I tried to ignore it. I charge you to find them and keep them safe. As for Theon Greyjoy, I wish to speak with him upon my return to the North. I don't want him killed. I don't want him flayed. If he is hurt, see that he is tended to. Remember that I have called him brother. --Robb Stark, the King in the North."

He looked up at her. "He knew," he said in wonder, "He knew I didn't kill his brothers. He _believed._ "

"Aye? That's good." She said softly. "He called you brother, did he? I wish I had known him."

"I should have told you about him from the beginning. The kind of man he was. Then maybe..."

She shook her head ruefully. "You forget what brats we were, both of us. I didn't exactly make it easy for you to confide in me, did I? And... neither one of us could have changed our dear departed father. Don't dwell on what should have been. It's of no use to anyone."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then: "Robb Stark didn't send that to you from beyond the grave, I think."

"No. I know who sent this... who had to have sent it."

"Domeric Bolton, is it? The same man who killed the Bastard." She grinned at him. "Don't look so shocked, little brother. I've met him, you know. We were prisoners together, wondering if the king would decide to give one or both of us to the flame. He asked me about you. Likes to put up a cool front, that one, but I've seen enough puppy love to recognize it. Or is it more than that?" She scrutinized him. "It's him you've been protecting with those stories of yours."

"I... more than that." He admitted. _Domeric._ It felt good to speak of it. He should have told her long ago. "I tried to do it. I should have, but I was too weak. Ramsay had to die, for everyone's sake. Domeric knew that. But he did it for me." 

"He seemed lonely. A bit like you." She pushed his mug to him. "Drink up, and you can tell me about these greenlander lords you find so irresistible. Then we'll go see Mother. Together."

*********************

They saw her together for the last time a few weeks later. Asha put her hand on his arm as they watched the little boat drift out to sea. "I know it was just a little while, but you made her happy."

It should have been longer. Theon gazed out to sea. _I haven't wasted my life, not completely,_ he reminded himself. He had helped to defeat his uncle, and fought in a war against the dead. He turned to his sister, blinking hard. "Let's go in."

As they waded back to shore, Theon caught the way her shirt now outlined her belly. "Is there cause for celebration after all?" He asked quietly, so none of the other mourners could hear.

Asha sighed, placing a hand on her stomach. "I had hoped she would live long enough to see it. My little squid. It can be Alannys if it's a girl."

"And who..."

"I took to the water and mated with a kraken. A husband would cause too much trouble." There was a trace of a smile in her voice. "It will be called Greyjoy, whatever it is."

 _A kraken named Qarl the Maid, if I had to make a guess._ He did not blame her for choosing her own pleasures. A noble husband would expect to be the true ruler, and Asha could not stand for that. But it made things more complicated. _And what of my sons, if I should ever manage to have them? They will be a threat to your children, as you surely know._ He tried to put this out of his mind. He did not want to think of such things. Not today.

"Come on," he said aloud. "I'm going to get drunk until I forget the years I've missed."

********************

She was waiting for him two days later when he recovered. "That may be fine behavior for a funeral," she told him, "but you can't fill all your days like this."

Theon gazed up at her woozily from the remains of his breakfast. He had been dreading this. "And what shall I fill the rest of my days with?"

She sat down across from him. "I can't see you spending them in a library. Do you want to come back to Pyke with me? I can find something for you to do."

"Hunting pirates?" 

"If you like. Or just being by my side as an advisor."

He thought about this. "I'm not very wise."

"I could marry you off. I'd find a noble maid of the Iron Islands. I have a pretty good idea of what you like, if you remember."

"I remember." He said, grinning sourly. "I'm not as delightful to women as I used to be." The thought of showing his scarred body to a girl, the look of horror or disgust or pity on her face as she realized she was bound to him for life, was enough to cool any desire. _It doesn't make you ugly, Theon._ He pushed that memory aside. "And if I have a son..."

"Those aren't things for you to worry about. You're my brother. I'll take care of you. I would find a lusty girl with a kind heart. I'll go to the greenlands if I have to. That might even be best."

"But of course, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. Stay a bachelor all your days if you like, or go after what you're really missing."

"What?" _She can't really mean..._

"There's a finer horse in the stables than I'm used to seeing. Yours?"

"It was... loaned me."

"And your boots. Looking worn out, aren't they?"

"You're suggesting I go back North!" He considered this. He could go, if he wanted. He had his sister here, but he could not see how he could be of use. He wanted peace. Could he get it here? It seemed like he would be out of place wherever he went... but in the North, there were still things left to do and say.

"I know a captain, and a boat. A good boat, large enough to carry livestock. He's spoken to me about a voyage. Around the tip of Dorne, and up through the Narrow Sea to White Harbor. He'll be back in Pyke within a few months. Not long for you to wait. In the meantime, you can stand by my side for all to see, so they know you are a Greyjoy wherever you go. What do you say to that, little brother?"

************

And that was how Theon came to be standing before the Lord of White Harbor clad, for the first time in years, in silk and velvet. He had been shopping, which was rather fortunate as Lord Manderly had somehow gotten wind of his arrival and summoned him. He'd forgotten how much more confident he felt when properly dressed.

"I didn't think we'd see your like in the North again, Prince Greyjoy."

He bowed gracefully. "My lord. I hope you don't intend to have my head, but if you do, please wait until my new boots are ready so I can go to the headsman in style."

The fat man laughed. "As bold a tongue as ever, I see. Tell me, what brings you back to the North despite the danger to your stylish neck?"

"I ride for the Dreadfort to return a stolen horse."

"Are you sure about that? Killing Ramsay Snow was a service to us all, no doubt, and young Lord Bolton most of all, but opinions differ on whether that one is fool or sage. Some say he was quite fond of his bastard brother, and he was certainly fond of his horse. You may be taking quite a gamble."

"But it's my gamble to take." The real risk, Theon thought, was that Domeric would greet him cordially, thank him politely for the return of his horse, and send him on his way with an empty smile. What then? His sister would welcome him back and he would try not to get in her way.

"You'll probably be all right. His wife should be grateful if nothing else, and he's said to be fond of her as well."

"His--" Theon choked out in disbelief. "You're not telling me... he and Arya Stark--"

The fat bastard was clearly enjoying this. Theon wondered gloomily how much he knew. "Oh no. Not a Stark. It's a funny story, actually, but I'll leave it to them to tell you. If you're still determined to go, that is."

 _Oh, I'm going. I can't turn back now._ Out loud he said: "I still have to return his horse. It's the princely thing to do."

"As you will. There's a caravan leaving for the Dreadfort in a week. I'll tell them who you are and where you are going. No need to give me _that_ look. They won't kill you and eat you. At least, not since the Stark boys showed up alive and well. You would have had to hire guards anyway. The roads still aren't as safe as they were in Ned Stark's time, and we'll all be embarrassed if you get killed by bandits."

He was right, of course. At least now Theon didn't have to worry about whether he should travel under a pseudonym. Nor did his companions look at him with quite the scorn he had feared. Ramsay's character had been well known. They even answered some of his questions, though the information was unreliable as all rumors. Yes, Domeric Bolton had been betrothed to Arya Stark, but she had been an imposter under a sorcerous glamour. On the wedding night, she had revealed herself to be a fierce wildling spearwife who meant to claim the North for her people. No, no, that had never been the deal. He'd been forced to marry a treacherous Frey woman, fat and hideous as a toad, though he'd been loyal to his king. He hadn't married at all, in fact, since no one ever saw his wife and he had no heir. His aunt was still looking for the right lady, as everyone must know.

Theon gave up on this line of questioning as hopeless. He did learn, from the sorts of men and supplies which were being transported, that the castle had not fared well during the battle for the Dawn. He remembered the way the place had been decorated, the bony sconces and disturbing old leather furniture (not for sitting on, it's too delicate!) which Domeric had laughed off as quaint family relics. How much of a body had to be left in order to rise as a wight? No wonder the army of the dead had found it attractive. No wonder a dragon had followed after.

************

 _So now I know which rumor is the correct one,_ Theon thought despondently as he bent over Lady Bolton's outstretched hand. _Correct for the most part, anyway._ She was a Frey, unfortunately, and plump, but she was rather pretty and, though he hated to admit it, was friendly and cheerful and did not seem treacherous at all. She met him in a relatively intact side building which had been repurposed as a place to receive guests, and was entertaining him until her lord could be fetched.

Walda liked to talk, and undoubtedly he should have been listening, but his attention was taken up by the pale eyes of the child on her hip. He tried to catch enough of the conversation to make the proper responses while most of his mind was taken up with trying to guess the baby's age. It seemed quite aged. _He can't have waited very long,_ he thought, perturbed. _Did he really want an heir that badly?_

He became aware that the woman had fallen silent. When he looked up at her she was beaming with pride. "Looks just like her father, doesn't she? Do you want to hold her?"

There was no polite way to refuse, so he took the infant into his arms. "Hello, ah..." He cursed himself. He had certainly been told the baby's name within the last fifteen minutes, but he could not remember it to save his life. "You're certainly big." He finished lamely. He tried to find some trace of Domeric in the plump features, but all brats looked alike to him. Only the eyes stood out, pale and innocent.

"Do you like babies? Most men don't want anything to do with them, even their own." Was she _blushing_ at him? Dear gods, had she been _flirting_ with him? No need to panic, it wasn't the first time he'd found himself in this position. He smiled widely enough to show his gold teeth and said:

"And your husband?" 

This got results, but not the desired ones. Walda's cheerful face crumpled as she replied in a trembling voice "Oh but he never even--I know he did bad things, but the king, he could have let--"

"Nevermind, forget I mentioned..." He tried to forestall the coming collapse, wondering where he had gone wrong this time. The last thing he wanted was to cause a mother to cry while still awkwardly holding her offspring. He was about to announce that the baby had wet herself when rescue came. 

"Theon?" Domeric Bolton stood in the door of the makeshift hall, his eyes wide. All was stillness for a moment, even Walda seemed to calm down in that self-possessed presence. Again, Theon cursed himself. He had wanted to appear before the new Lord Bolton in his fine, new, unstained clothing atop the white horse he had come to return, not clutching a smelly brat and putting his foot in his mouth with the mother. How had he come to this? He should have waited outside the castle, perhaps, or insisted on being brought to him directly. He should have...

"It _is_ you!" There was that smile, like ice melting. Was it a touch more hesitant than he remembered? Other than that, Domeric looked quite unchanged. He crossed the room in a few strides, then leaned over to kiss the infant in Theon's arms. There was the scent of his clean sweat as black hair brushed against Theon's cheek. "Hello, little Bethany," he whispered. The pale eyes flicked to Walda Frey. "Are you all right, Mother?" _Mother!?_

"Oh! Yes, I'm sorry, I know I'm foolish--"

"Not at all!" Theon broke in. He tore his eyes from Domeric and bowed as much as he was able. "I said something heartless and stupid. Please forgive me, my lady." He made haste to return the baby. Lady Walda looked at him reproachfully, but only for a moment, and then was off to find a nurse.

"Your stepmother." Theon stated when she was gone. 

"And my little sister." Something had gone out of Domeric when they had left the room. He seemed just a little tired and flat.

"I've made... a rather foolish mistake. I hope your lady mother doesn't hold grudges."

"What mistake?" There was an awkward pause. _This is going terribly._ There was nothing for it but honesty.

"I had heard my lord was married." He said as lightly as he could. 

"Oh. _Oh._ " Theon winced inwardly at the amusement that flooded into that second "Oh."

"Yes, I see. As a matter of fact I am married, though to a very different woman. You won't be able to meet her now, though. She's with her friends in Winterfell."

"You really married Arya Stark? No wonder you don't want her here, with the Frey woman." But Domeric was shaking his head again, smiling.

"No bride so exalted for me, I fear. My aunt has threatened to poison her so I can marry higher. I've been told Winterfell has protection against all assassins, even the legendary Faceless Men. I don't know how true that is, but staying there is a reminder that she has powerful friends."

"You care about this girl, then?"

"I didn't expect to. The circumstances were... complicated. But yes. Jeyne has been a great comfort to me."

"Oh." Hadn't he known a Jeyne once upon a time? It was a common name, though. "That... That's good to know. I'm glad to find you well. I came here, you know, to return the horse you lent me. You must be busy with rebuilding now, so I'll be off as soon as the caravan leaves."

"Theon, wait!" He had finished his bow and was just turning to leave this disaster zone when the urgency in this cry halted him. Domeric's eyes were wide again, this time with alarm. He swallowed. "Don't... It's too early to leave yet. Don't you at least want to see the ruins? I know you never liked the place."

"You want me to stay? But I thought... Wouldn't I be..." 

"I thought I'd never see you again! You came all this way, just to go again after no time at all? Theon... Wait, you're not _jealous_?!" He ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm still an idiot. Please don't leave just yet. Stay and talk, at least."

"Nothing your wife will mind?"

"Unlikely. She didn't mind spending her wedding night playing cyvasse."

" _Cyvasse?_ "

Domeric shrugged. "One has to do something on one's wedding night."

"Nice to see you don't give any more fucks than I remember." It _was_ reassuring, actually. "Isn't the point of marriage to get an heir?"

"I _have_ one, as you've seen. And we didn't feel like it."

"But you couldn't refuse. You couldn't disobey your family." Said Theon, understanding. 

"You don't know what it was like back then." Domeric was looking away, Theon remembered how he used to do that, gods he remembered-- "I had to go along with Father's plans. You were gone, and I... didn't know what else to do. He knew I'd killed... I don't know how, he just looked at me and he knew. He was pleased. I don't know if he planned for me to-- or if he just wanted one of us to kill the other, or what. But I'd proven I could be ruthless after all. Jeyne was kind to me, though. She knows how to keep secrets." 

Theon touched a little silver tube he had hung around his neck. "And this letter you sent me...?"

"Yes! You got it, then. That was from Father, too. He had the raven shot down and he took it. Why he gave it over to me... I don't know if it was to punish me, or if he meant it as kindness. Maybe both. I shouldn't have kept it so long, but I didn't want to give it up. It was all I had left of you."

"Thank you. You know what it means to me." Theon gripped the cylinder and its precious contents tightly. "I'm sorry I left you alone in the woods." _I didn't want to._

"It's... all right. You took my horse away. If he'd stayed with me he would have been eaten." Domeric cleared his throat. "Enough of this. I'll show you what's become of the place."

The spring sunlight was bright and unforgiving. Theon had heard tales of Harrenhal, the lost Ironborn fortress where stone had flowed like water under the ministrations of Aegon's dragons. That had been difficult to imagine, but he no longer had to. He could see it.

Not all the buildings were ruined, but all were at least touched. The stones of the building they had just exited ran together at the edges. One edifice was a mound of melted wax topped with great spikes, some of which had slid down the sides. It reminded Theon of castles he and Asha had built as children, dribbling wet sand into fantastic shapes and sticking them with shells until they fell over under their weight, or the incoming tide. The strangest sight was a tall tower, untouched in the middle and on top, with a great bite of the ground floor softened and flowed away. The thing was surrounded by a puddle of stone which had once been part of its wall. There was a great gaping hole underneath. It looked like the thing was ready to topple into the waves at any moment. There was a bizarre alien beauty to all this ruin, though he tried not to think of it as an improvement.

"The crypts were a problem all over the North, save in Winterfell," said Domeric softly, "but it was by far the worst here."

"I'm sorry." And he was. "I know it was your home, even if I did call it an ugly shithole.

" _Is_ my home. I have no other." Amazingly, there were people moving in and out of the buildings. Some had scaffolding around them. The walls were mostly intact, Theon noticed. It still had the potential to be a strong castle. "All those dogs were here. What that must have been like." He heard Domeric murmur.

"I don't remember you ever brooding this much." Theon said out loud, and the blank smile was back in place in an instant. The sight of it was suddenly intolerable. "I used to have a fake smile, only I did it all the time. I can't imagine how annoying that must have been." They were passing the doorway of a ruined building. Theon jumped, but managed to choke back a yelp as Domeric seized his arm and pushed him through.

It was not dark inside the ruin, for there was no roof, but they were out of sight of the people working outside. Theon regained his composure, looking around. They were in the remains of the old stables, he realized. His companion was slow to recover, leaning back against the wall, unconscious of the soot staining his dark hair and clothes.

"I used to be able to forget it." He said finally. " But I have proof now. My brother was a beast, my father an oathbreaker and the most vile kind of murderer, and I, a kinslayer too cowardly to admit to my crime. How's that for bad blood?" 

"Your horse has given me much the same, though not from the same end." Theon retorted. "If you want a look at bad blood you should examine my family tree, there's plenty of it there, aye, and good. Not me, but my sister is as fine a woman as you could meet and even one of my uncles turned out to be all right, in the end. We don't have to be our ancestors, and thank the gods for that. As for Ramsay _Snow_ ," he couldn't keep a tremor out of his voice any more than he could let this pass, "he had to die, whoever did the deed."

Domeric was shaking his head slowly. "It's not just them. I've read the history of our house. It's a history of horror. You can see it in our banners. Why else would the white walkers have come here in such numbers? It must have been like coming home for them."

"But they all burned! They burned and died, and here you are to start over."

Domeric met his eyes somberly. "Did the people we left here have to die because my ancestors were bad men? I'd abandon this place if it wasn't Bethany's, too."

"What they were has nothing to do with you. People died all over, and the survivors are moving on. They _have_ to. Are you going to let a pack of old dead men drive you out of your own home even after that dragon went to the trouble of disposing of them for you? If I had a home I'd fight for it." The last slipped out before he realized it. To cover up, he bent down and picked up a chunk of metal which had caught his eye. Once a bit, he thought, or a piece of bridle. He wondered if it could be reforged into something useful again. "Even I managed to be happy here for a little while."

"Theon!" Domeric reached him in four strides. When Theon turned his head, he found himself kissed on the lips, too briefly to either kiss back or pull away. "I missed you. When I walked through that door and saw you holding my sister, I... never mind. I'm glad you came. Even if you leave this very hour, it was worth it." He was smiling a real smile now, though his hand gripped Theon's arm like that of a drowning man.

"Who says I'm leaving today, or even this week? I haven't even met your wife yet." Theon found himself smiling as well, not the mocking smile which he still used sometimes or the shy closed-lip smile, but a full wide grin with gold teeth and all. He must look like an utter fool, but only Domeric was here to see, and Domeric didn't care. 

"Not me. I won't stop you." The pale eyes were luminous with hope. "But if you stay, it won't look like the old Dreadfort. We'll rebuild it into something different."

"Wise of you. I don't think the bone furniture was a good idea, in retrospect. Sorry," Domeric's expression was a mix of laughter and outrage, "I never liked it."

"See? I need you... your sense of taste." His voice grew uncertain. "Will you stay? With no bars nor guards nor fear of what waits outside. Just me."

Theon curled the four fingers of his left hand into the five fingers of Domeric's right. "I could go back to Pyke, or travel the Free Cities, or sail west to find the end of the world. I'm staying here, right now, because I choose to."

"Even with all the memories? Even with... who I am?"

"Domeric," Theon said gently, "Stop being an ass."

And kissed him.


End file.
